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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122470">Bella, mulier qui</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey'>Superstition_hockey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whatever You Love Best [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Amputation, Death (not Hayes or any JCT family), Explosions, F/M, Guns, Hayes can have a little treason as a treat, Hayes gradually realizing what Bells knew all along, Past Child Abuse, Senator Haywood's A+ Parenting, Violent Military Altercations, War, military industrial complex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:20:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,879</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>she's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely<br/>step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on<br/>all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and<br/>glittering armor.<br/>~Sappho, the Anactoria Poem</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lawrence Haywood/Bells Teixeira, OFC/OMC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Whatever You Love Best [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1242</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>273</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've tagged this Non-Con because there is a chapter where a sexual assault happens off-screen, prior to the story. It is not discussed in graphic detail, but it is discussed by characters obliquely, and is a major plot point of that chapter. </p><p>I'll be posting this work chapter by chapter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lori’s 10 o’clock is already waiting for her in the waiting room when she walks Jayne out to the check-out counter and asks Ed to schedule her for weekly appointments for the next six weeks. </p><p>She looks over his chart, scans the questionnaire he filled out and offers him a smile. “Captain?” She swipes her badge and opens the door back to their offices. “Come on after me.” </p><p>He’s in Friday service charlies, crisp creases and khaki shirtsleeves in the California summer, barracks cap in one hand. She watches him as he steps into her office. His body language is confident, easy, no outward signs of nervousness. He gives her a quick handshake, and a "Pleasure to meet you, Major Singh."</p><p>He’s quick in choosing his seat. There’s a chair, and a loveseat. He chooses the right side of the loveseat, door to his left, her chair to his right, his back to the wall and out of line of sight of the window. The fabric on that cushion is more worn than any of the others, it’s the preferred seating of almost all her clients. He sets his cover down on the coffee table and leans back.  </p><p>“Please, call me Lori. I generally like to do first names with my clients. Do you go by Lawrence, or maybe Larry?” </p><p>“No one calls me Lawrence except for my parents. Haywood is fine, or Hayes, ma’am.” </p><p>“All right, Hayes. I couldn’t help notice that you’re made these appointments for marriage counseling, but you’re alone. Did your spouse not feel comfortable attending with you today?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Colonel Lee sighs when his attaché buzzes him to say that Haywood has arrived. "Send him in." </p>
<p>When the marine steps in, Lee looks him over. He doesn't say anything when he enters besides "Colonel, sir," in greeting, standing at attention in a perfectly pressed and folded BDUs. </p>
<p>"At ease, Lieutenant," Lee tells him and the kid shifts automatically, arms behind his back, head up. </p>
<p>"Holders told me you requested to be sent to IOC after graduation," Lee begins. "With scores like yours, you could go anywhere you want. Outstanding ability to do pushups aside, I was a little surprised you requested infantry. Your undergraduate course selection suggests the JAG program would be the preferred route."</p>
<p>"Sir."</p>
<p>The moment drags out. Lee sighs. "This is where you tell me why you'd like to go into the infantry, marine."</p>
<p>"Sir. It is my intention to move from infantry to Force Recon."</p>
<p>"Oh, and then I suppose from Recon you'll want to try for MARSOC."</p>
<p>"Sir."</p>
<p>"And if you die, not uncommon for new lieutenants in infantry, I'll add, how soon will I find myself explaining in a joint chief of staff meeting why you died in a ditch along the side of the road."</p>
<p> "You don't need to worry about that, sir."</p>
<p>"You don't know a damn thing about what I worry about, Lieutenant."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir." </p>
<p>Remarkable really; Lee must be pissing the kid off, but absolutely none of it shows on his face, a perfect blank mask, neither overly deferential nor proud, nothing that could be remarked upon at all, except the little shit's complete refusal to offer anything up voluntarily. </p>
<p>Lee closes the file on his desk. He doesn't offer for Haywood to sit. "How about you explain why you think, in the infinite wisdom of a green second lieutenant who hasn't graduated BoC yet, why you think where I send the son of the Chair of the Committee on Armed Forces isn't something I need to worry about." </p>
<p>Haywood blinks. A slow, fractional movement, that doesn't touch the rest of his face. When he finally speaks, his voice is a calm, slow, agreeable drawl, without the slightest hint of attitude. "As you said, sir, I would not presume to know what should worry a Marine Corps colonel."</p>
<p>Lee lets the seconds tick out, eyebrows raised expectantly, until finally the little shithead continues.  "A degree in political science suggests that, as a whole, United States Senators' worries are informed to them by an intricate lobby system, sir. In the case of a certain senator for the Virginian Commonwealth, his concerns lie chiefly with a number of defense and security contracts, along with investors in publicly owned corporations that trade mostly in foreign commodities, all of which have a vested interest in the perpetuation of an aggressive American military presence in certain regions of global economic interest. Sir."</p>
<p>God save him from other assholes’ shitty parenting. Lee fights back the urge to sigh. </p>
<p>"And your mother?"</p>
<p>"Sir. I was not aware that the US Marine Corps made a habit of taking into consideration the opinions of mothers, sir," Haywood replies blandly. </p>
<p>He's read over Haywood's training results and notes from drill instructors carefully. His only failing mark in the whole curriculum: a flat refusal to leave one of his marines behind during a night training exercise. He'll make a damn good officer. And if he doesn't get court martialed, he'll make One-Star before he's 45. "You've got a little bit of a chip on your shoulder, Haywood." </p>
<p>Haywood doesn't let Lee's last attempt to rile him up get to him, his voice still calm when he answers, "No, sir, those are just my trapezoids."</p>
<p>It startles a laugh out of Lee. Jesus fucking Christ, this kid. "A consequence of all the pushups, I suppose. All right then, Haywood, let's see what Sergeant Griggs can do about that mouth on you in infantry school." </p>
<p>Haywood nods, and there is a flash of emotion just visible around his eyes. Relief. "Thank you, sir." He says it with more feeling than anything else he'd said so far. </p>
<p>Lee doesn't sigh but, god, he wants to. "Get out of my office, Haywood, before I find a way to make sure you do nothing but pick up dry cleaning and answer some 3-star's emails for the next four years."</p>
<p>"Sir." Haywood nods and leaves. Lee stares at the door for a while after it closes behind him, then reaches for his mobile and texts his wife. Maybe they can get lunch with their son this weekend if he's not too busy, see how he's doing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the chapter with the sexual assault</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>First Lieutenant Johnson dies in a firefight 15 klicks outside of their basecamp, when command has them heading straight over a bridge into what is clearly, very obviously to everyone a fucking trap. Whatever. Mel’s a marine, and she’s used to shit orders that make no sense. She’s a grunt, she’ll die a grunt, probably because some dipshit officer’s three brain cells weren’t firing on all cylinders one day, and she made her peace with that a long time ago. </p><p>The bullet hits the LT straight in the temple, goes clean through, and Mel keeps fighting and only thinks a little bit about Hailey’s crying face, weeping in Mel’s tent, or their useless fuck of a captain. She’s got an ambush to get them out of.  People die in battle all the time. </p><p>If anybody bothered to check or bothered to care when they dug the bullet out of his skull and noticed it was NATO 5.56 instead of the 7.62 x 39mm the enemy was shooting, well, that happens all the time too, unfortunately. Friendly fire. In a combat situation there are a lot of loose bullets flying around and friendly fire happens much more frequently than anyone ever thinks. Very tragic. </p><p> </p><p>Mel doesn’t say anything about it and no one else says anything to her about it either, even though she’s pretty sure Private Valentini saw. Sometimes when she’s lying in her tent, she lets herself dream that no one says anything because of Hailey crying. Because of Hailey with her bruised mouth and her stupid fucking eyeliner smudged and her BDUs all torn up. But in the daylight Mel knows it’s because everyone else hated Johnson too. Because he was a petty, cruel, lying tyrant who made everyone’s life fucking hell over the most trivial shit, and if he’d laughed and been good natured and slapped all the dudes on the back, no one would have cared about Hailey crying and Valentini wouldn’t be so quiet. </p><p>Command doesn’t say anything either. Just like they didn’t say anything when Hailey had done exactly what she was supposed to do and take it up the chain of command and she’d told Nyugen and Nyugen told Mel, and Mel had told the Captain and the Captain hadn’t done a fucking thing. </p><p>Command doesn’t say anything, but they do send a new lieutenant, some baby Boots fresh out of Quantico, with zero experience. The captain tells her Second Lieutenant Lawrence Haywood, III, is being assigned to their squadron and he doesn’t need to say anything for the message to be completely clear. </p><p>Kill this one with the senator for a daddy and you’re going to fucking Leavenworth to make big rocks into little rocks for the rest of all time. </p><p>The new lieutenant is so brand new he still squeaks if he turns around too fast.  He shakes her hand, and Sarge’s. He doesn’t look scared, which makes Mel pretty sure he’s an idiot. After the Captain takes him over to his tent to get situated, Mel starts back to work on their fucking Humvees with Nyugen and Randall and an hour or so later she looks up to find the new LT watching them from a few feet away. </p><p>“You need something, LT?” </p><p>“Gunnery Sergeant Mercado.” He returns her salute. “I have been reliably informed the best advice for a second lieutenant is to do what his gunny tells him. Just here to get educated.”</p><p>“Well, if no one’s told you, there’s something wrong with the ketchup and we don’t know what, so don’t eat it.” </p><p>A corner of his mouth twitches up. “I will take that under advisement, Gunnery Sergeant.” </p><p>He peers at the mount while she’s working on it. “Is there a reason why you are using what appears to be office-supply rubber bands in the maintenance and repair of essential equipment, Gunnery Sergeant?” </p><p>“Semper Gumby, LT, we’re shit out of everything else.”</p><p>“Ah,” he said, and then: "I have some zip ties in my pack. I’ll go get them for you, they might hold a little longer.” </p><p>Oh. He’s <em>nice</em>. Well, that’s fucking irritating. </p><p>Nyugen walks up to her after the LT goes off to zipties. He squints at the Lieutenant’s receding figure. “Is it just me, or does it look like the Marine Corps ordered him out of a J.Crew catalog?”</p><p> </p><p>Three days later, it all goes to shit, a clusterfuck breaking out when they’re in the middle of a town. Surprisingly, the new LT keeps his head on his shoulders the whole time. She can tell right of way he’s green as fuck, but he’s a natural at reading movements, keeping track of enemy fire and their own marines despite the screaming chaos. </p><p>It’s still a fucking mess. Fights like that always seem like they last for days, but in reality the whole thing probably only took fifteen minutes. When the perimeter is secured, Mel finds the new LT standing by the north end of the destroyed market square, staring at a blood-splattered car. She doesn’t need to look to know there’s probably a dead civilian in it. He’s just finished relaying clean-up orders to Nyugen, but he barely blinks when Mel comes up next to him, eyes glassy. He’s gray and clammy looking. </p><p>“LT. You’ll feel better if you puke, and none of us will judge you for it,” she says. </p><p>He does look at her then, only a glance before his eyes are dragged back to the car. “I’m not going to puke, Gunny.” </p><p>She pulls a handkerchief out her pocket, gets her water from her pack, and dumps some on it, hands it to him. He doesn’t puke, but he does take the cloth, presses it to his neck, closes his eyes. </p><p>“It’s not all honor and medals,” she says, because he’s a pretty-faced senator’s son who looks like he’s about to lose his breakfast along with his illusions, but at least he was saving his freak-out for after the fighting was over. </p><p>He snorts. “I’ve always known war is bullshit,” he  says, voice rough. </p><p>“Then why are you here?” and she can’t help the hard edge of bitterness at the tail end of it, because she’s career, because she's proud of her service, but it was always her only option if she wanted to get out of Watts Mills, and she knew it. This kid could be anywhere in the world right now. </p><p>He just shrugs. “A thousand reasons, some good, some petty, some selfish.” He squares his shoulders, hands her cloth back to her. “But I’m here now. Let’s have that sitrep, Gunny.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Three weeks after that, when they’re bunked up in what, as far as she can tell, was some sort of old manufacturing plant, the LT sits down next to her, rifle over his shoulder and MRE balanced in one hand. </p><p>“So what’s up with Andrews?” he asks, halfway through his meal. </p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with Corporal Andrews,” she snaps, and has to bite back the venom in it. Has to swallow dust and add a, “sir,” on the end of it. </p><p>“Uh-huh.” He puts his empty tray on the floor, entire meal finished in about 35 seconds, and says, “Except none of you will so much let her go piss on her own without a two-man escort and every time I go near her, Nyugen somehow magically appears out of thin air to loom disapprovingly.” </p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with Corporal Andrews,” Mel repeats. </p><p>“All right.” He looks at her, and for all his dumb pretty boy face is irritating, it would be less irritating if he didn’t look so <em>hard</em> at her, like he was really looking. “You know,” he starts back up, eyes leaving hers to look back out on the rest of their makeshift camp, “when I first got assigned to this unit, they told me y’all had a morale problem.” </p><p>Mel makes herself breathe through the squeeze of her panicking lungs. “Is that right?” </p><p>He doesn’t look at her, just keeps tracking the others. “Mhmm. See, the thing is though, I know all about morale problems. I grew up in a morale problem, you know?”</p><p>Mel snorts and the LT shoots her a look. “What, you think rich kids don’t ever have any kind of evil-son-of-a-bitch to teach them how to be miserable?” His eyes flit over to Hailey where she’s sitting on a paint can. “Probably not the same morale problem as Andrews, if I’m reading it right, but the same as all the rest of you, I guess.” He pauses, like he’s really about to choose what he says next carefully, and then says, “Of course, I never got the chance to put a bullet in my dad's skull, sadly.” </p><p>Mel chokes, something half shock, half laughter that he just fucking… said it.</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Mel finally manages to say, “pretty sure shooting the Chair of the Armed Forces Committee is treason.” </p><p>He shrugs. “Anyway, all I’m trying to ask, Gunny, is if Andrew’s morale problem is all dead, or if there are any remnants of it left in the unit I need to know about.” </p><p>Mel stares at the dirt six inches left of Hailey’s paint can and finally says, “The source of any momentary dip in squad morale is no longer an issue, sir.”</p><p>He stands, slaps her on the back. “Great. Good to hear it. I’ll see if I can get Corporal Andrews stateside and talking to someone as soon as I can, but until then, if it makes her more comfortable, I’ll make sure you or Corporal Meadows are with me if I’m with her. Do what you need to do to make sure she’s never alone if it makes her more comfortable.”  He picks up his empty tray from the ground and walks off.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every other training Cam has been to, teamwork and unity has been the number one thing the officers pushed. You're only as strong as the sailor next to you, trust the chain of command, blah blah blah. </p><p>SERE is nothing like that. SERE is fucking <em>mind games</em>. He's paired with a first lieutenant. Staff Sergeant Lopez gestures at him. "You know, Petty Officer Tjaden, your LT’s only been in for two years, and he's already making twice what you make. If you stayed in for 20 yrs and made Chief, you wouldn’t be earning half of what he gets by the time he made O4."</p><p>Cam hefts his pack on his shoulders. He stares at the LT.  It's not like Staff Sergeant Lopez had said it outside of earshot of him. The other pairs are gearing up too, scattering into the forest.  They've got ten minutes to get into the tree-line. If the Staff Sgt or any of the trainers see them, catch them… well, the goal is to not get caught. </p><p>He knows it’s just a mindfuck but it doesn't make him any less pissed off. The only way to deal with shit like that is to be upfront. Cam’s not losing. </p><p>"Goddamn, that was effective," he says as casually as he can manage, as they head into the woods on their snowshoes. "I hate you a little already, sir. "</p><p>The LT gives him half a smile. "I appreciate that, Petty Officer Tjaden." He opens their map.  "But maybe we can table the discussion of the military’s use of financial control of enlisted personnel until we've found our waypoints, evaded these fucking assholes, and rubbed our victory in the face of all the other teams "</p><p>"Yeah. all right, sir." Cam laughs. </p><p> </p><p>Three days later, he and the LT have found their rhythm. He's cold. Constantly. And his hips ache from snowshoeing. At night they dig their burrows into the snow, line them pine boughs, and spread out their mummy bags. </p><p>Cam learns the first night not to leave his boots out by his sleeping bag. The next morning when he puts them on, they're freezing cold, and leach the heat straight out of him. It takes him until noon to finally warm them up, even with their steady movement all day. It's energy he doesn't have. They haven't eaten since the exercise started. Now, when he takes his boots off at night, he pushes them down into the bottom of his mummy bag, so they stay warm through the night. </p><p>They don't make fires; the light would give their position away.</p><p>They're the first to reach the drop site that day. The LT lets out a whoop when they get to it. There's another set of coordinates and one <em>fun size</em> Snickers bar. Neither of them have eaten in three days. Haywood stares at the Snickers bar, and then takes out his KA-BAR. Cam watches him split it evenly down the middle. </p><p>Cam tries to make his portion last, but it's hard not to eat it in one bite.  The LT hefts his pack back on his shoulders. "The temperatures dropping" he says, "when we need to start plotting out our next course. We'll want to make camp early tonight." </p><p>That night, the temperature drops colder than it’s been; even their snow-insulated structure and down-filled mummy bags aren't enough. Haywood has them zip their bags together. </p><p>"We're not ever talking about this, right?" Cam asks as he snuggles up to the LT for warmth, feeling the trembling in his limbs start to lessen as the LT wraps himself around him. </p><p>"Well, Tjaden," the LT says into his hair, "pretty sure this whole course is classified, so no. Not talking about it."</p><p>"Oh, good."</p><p>The LT’s built like a brick house. All that muscle’s hard to keep up; Cams pretty sure he's been losing mass every day, but he's still <em>warm</em>. The LT doesn't try anything weird, just wraps around him and holds and pretty soon Cam’s falling asleep. He's almost not cold.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their new LT is straight from JumpMaster school, all ooorah moto bullshit, whip lean and hungry for action. Tommy’s never really seen him crack a smile, although Mercado had assured him the LT is solid.  “Shit hot,” she’d said, “but you’ll appreciate the moto there, I guess. Expects everyone squared away but he’s not an asshole about it.” </p><p>Tommy’d been doubtful, but whatever. </p><p>Anyway he doesn’t really care because they’re back stateside, and the problem with being stateside is sure, you’re eating real food but also you have to put up with Briscoe and his fucking incessant YouTube shows playing in the background while they’re working on the Humvees and it’s fucking annoying. </p><p>“Hi, this is Erica Bailey and you’re watching Rock News!” The autoplay slides into another video, “Haukor Skullbjorn, drummer for Whaleroad, appears to be dating the youngest daughter of Canada's Hockey Royal Family. The tapestry-metal musician was seen with Baby-Bells Teixeira, the youngest daughter of famous hockey players Luc Chantal and Oliver Jackson, at an Islanders game last night. Rumors that Haukor’s recent split with DJ Fionna DeathHeart looks like they’re shaping up to be--”</p><p>“Briscoe!” Tommy hears the bark of the LT as he rolls out from under the Humvee’s undercarriage. “The fuck are you listening to?” </p><p>“It’s just in the background, sir.”</p><p>“Briscoe. This is the United States Marine Corps not your gossip hour during study hall. Put on some goddamned music or turn it off.” </p><p>“Sir, yes, sir,” Briscoe says, and changes it to a Spotify playlist. JCrew rolls back under the truck. </p><p>An hour or so later, Tommy steps outside for a smoke break, and to stretch his back, and sees JCrew leaning against the wall on his phone. </p><p>“The shit you say, Teixeira,” JCrew is saying, eyes half closed, and Tommy’s never heard that tone out of LT’s mouth before, all slow lazy contentment, soft and easy. It’s so weird it barely even sounds like JCrew, but he guesses it’s not so weird if JCrew has a girl. It’s kinda hard to think of him having anyone really, or existing anywhere except here in his uniform, like the weird shock of seeing your teacher in the grocery store. It never occurred to Tommy that JCrew would have any kind of life outside of the Corps or that he talked to anyone that wasn’t <em>them</em>, but of course he must. </p><p>It’s too weird to hear the LT’s voice go all gooey like that, kinda gross, so Tommy shakes it off and walks down to the other end of the building to finish his cigarette.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Captain Haywood drums his fingers on the arm of the loveseat. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘All happy families are alike. Unhappy families are all unhappy in their own way?” </p><p>“Yes,” Lori says, “I’m familiar with that Tolstoy quote.” </p><p>Haywood shifts in his seat. “I was paraphrasing Michael Weston, actually, but, either way, I think it’s bullshit.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tag added for child abuse. </p><p>Thanks for all the love, friends, it feels good to be posting things again.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Captain Haywood drums his fingers on the arm of the loveseat. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘All happy families are alike. Unhappy families are all unhappy in their own way?” </p><p>“Yes,” Lori says, “I’m familiar with that Tolstoy quote.” </p><p>Haywood shifts in his seat. “I was paraphrasing Michael Weston, actually, but, either way, I think it’s bullshit.”</p><p>“How so? I happen to agree with you, but I’m interested in hearing your perspective on why.” </p><p>Haywood looks out the windows. “I had a pretty shitty home life, growing up, though they worked hard to make sure everything was picture perfect on the outside. Got sent to Episcopal for high school and was just happy to be out of that fucking house. I knew lots of miserable kids with shitty families, met lots of them at school, just as many people in the Corps, but the thing is, they were all shitty in the same handful of ways. Bells… Bells grew up happy, in a happy family, but her family’s different from any other family I’ve known.” </p><p>Lori hums. “And that’s why you wanted to work on marriage counseling before you separate from the Corps? You said you were worried that if you and your wife lived together, after you were out, that you wouldn’t know how to be with her.” </p><p>Haywood nods. “Something like that. Most of my life, I figured the best thing to do is to do the exact opposite of what my father would do. It’s a pretty good guidance system, but I’ve got no model for...” He shrugs. “My mom and my dad barely interacted with each other if it wasn’t a public appearance. She didn’t.” He breathes in. “There’s nothing to -- I don’t know. She was just this… hollow prop that stood next to him. She lived in the east wing. She barely spoke to him, and not to us at all. My father hit me once because I answered him in Spanish because that’s what I spoke with the housekeeper. I was five. She was the only person who ever gave a damn about me in that house. My mother didn’t even look up from her magazine. I don’t know. How. To be. How a marriage should be. I don’t know how to not fuck it up.” </p><p>“Have you observed your wife’s family? How do her parents interact with each other?” </p><p>“Well,” Hayes says after a significant pause, “they’re a commune full of absolute lunatics. But they seem like they genuinely actually give a shit about each other.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Camilla has been a war correspondent for years. It's not the first conflict zone she's been in, not the first time she's woken up with gunfire in the distance, but it is the first time things have gone so monumentally to shit before. The first time she really believed she might die.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Camilla has been a war correspondent for years. It's not the first conflict zone she's been in, not the first time she's woken up with gunfire in the distance, but it is the first time things have gone so monumentally to shit before. The first time she really <em>believed</em> she might die. </p><p>She’s just talking to Mike, who’s unloading their cameras from the car when there’s a deafening explosion. In the ear-ringing, eerie silence afterward, someone starts wailing; then there’s a sudden rap of gunfire, a few lone shots. </p><p>“Mike!” she shouts, voice muffled and echoey in her own ears, turning to tell him they need to get out of here, but… Mike is crumpled on the ground, a long, jagged piece of metal shrapnel sticking out of his left eye, blood oozing out of his ears. There’s an answering report of gunfire, and suddenly the street is overrun, gun fire everywhere. It’s chaos, and her ears are still ringing and Mike is <em>dead</em> and she doesn’t know what to do. </p><p>A bullet pierces the front of their car. Everything stinks of petrol. She can’t hear anything. She should be doing something. Mike’s dead. </p><p>Suddenly, someone grabs her from behind. She starts screaming, kicking, but the arm around her waist is tight, and she’s being half-carried toward an old SUV. She tries all the self-defense moves she’s been taught. Tries to stomp on the man’s boot, elbow him, throw her head back to headbutt him but none of it seems to work. He's saying something to her, but she <em>can't hear</em>, it's too garbled behind the high-pitched <em>eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee</em> of her aching ear drums. </p><p>She’s shoved into the backseat of the SUV. There’s so much noise, dim and echoing, her head hurts. Mike’s dead. A forearm like an iron bar shoves her down into the floor of the vehicle. Something olive green is thrown on top of her, slick rip-stop nylon over something rigid. Body armor, some distant part of her brain supplies. She tries to lift her head to see what’s going on, and a hand shoves her back down. </p><p>“Keep your fucking head down, ma’am,” a muffled voice shouts at her, just barely audible.</p><p>Ma’am. </p><p>Camilla lets her head drop, because that was an <em>American</em> accent. Her cheek brushes against the cuff of the man’s trouser leg. Dark blue denim. But the boots look military issue. She takes a deep breath. She tries to stop shaking. There's no logical explanation for American presence here unless they're military or military adjacent. They've got no reason to kidnap a British journalist. Certainly you don't call someone ma'am while kidnapping them either.</p><p>They drive and whoever is driving is driving… aggressively. There’s a lot of barely audible cursing, fast acceleration and swerving. Eventually the sounds of the chaos die down a little. They seem to be driving more smoothly. Her ears are still ringing, head spinning but it quiets, a little, so she can hear the voices of the men around her. Eventually someone lifts the body armor up.  </p><p>"Ma'am, you can get up now. Sorry about the rough handling." </p><p>When she untwists herself and gets up on the bench seat, she's sandwiched between two men in the back. Another two upfront. They’re all dressed in civilian clothes, denim, dark sweatshirts underneath winter jackets. The one on the left is paying her no attention, an M4 rifle trained out the window, a green and gray checked scarf pulled up over his mouth.  The one on her right is staring at her with crystal blue eyes above a balaclava. “Are you injured?” he asks. </p><p>"Camilla Barr, BBC. Thank you for the timely arrival, gents." She sounds a little shaky to her own ears, but she thinks she manages to sound like she's holding it together. </p><p>"Oh, well," the man in the front passenger seat says. "We just happened to be in the area, happy to drop by." </p><p>"Fuck me, LT," the driver says.  "That was some grade one horseshit."</p><p>The man to her left momentarily takes a hand off his M4 to reach around the headrest and cuff the driver on the head.</p><p>“Sorry, L- shit. Sorry.” </p><p>The man to her left snorts at that and mutters, “Goddamn dumbass.” </p><p>“LT?” She asks Balaclava. So, military, like she thought. By the civilian clothes, a deep reconnaissance team. She'd guess marines, if pressed, just on gut instinct, but they could be a ranger unit. </p><p>He rolls his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said LT is a nickname?”</p><p>“I would absolutely believe that LT is a nickname for lieutenant, yes.” </p><p>He sighs. </p><p>The man in the driver seat wheels around. “Oh my god, she said it! Say it again!” </p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Smitty,” front passenger seat snaps. “Eyes on the road.” </p><p>“No, she said it. I’ve never heard a Brit say it in real life. Oh my god, it’s just like the movies. Say lieutenant again. <em>Left</em>-tenant. Oh my god.”</p><p>“Smitty, if you don’t shut the fuck up,” the lieutenant says calmly, “you’re going to be <em>left</em> here on the street and you can walk back.” He turns to look at her again, “LT is a nickname for my initials. Are you injured?” </p><p>Camilla shakes her head, the distraction from their bickering dissolving, “I don’t... I don’t think so. My cameraman’s dead.” She’s not going to cry. She’s not dead, and she’s not going to cry. </p><p>The vehicle falls silent. No one knows what to say to that. Finally, Driver-seat, <em>Smitty</em> says, “Yeah, that sucks.” </p><p>She looks at the LT. “What is your name then? If it’s your initials.”</p><p>“Leonard,” he says flatly. “Leonard Travers.” At the same time Smitty says, “Lionel Torres.”<br/>
Left back passenger seat grins at her. “Lars Torvaldson.” She smiles, despite herself.</p><p>“All right, Lieutenant,” she says and closes her eyes. She needs to get herself under control. She needs to <em>think</em>. Closing her eyes doesn’t help. All she can see, when they’re closed, is Mike’s body. The blankness of his face. </p><p>“Lieutenant, I need to go back to my hotel. I need … Oh god. Mike. I need…. Someone. We can’t <em>leave him</em> there.” </p><p>“Smitty grabbed your camera guy, his body’s in the back.”</p><p><em>Oh God</em>. </p><p>“Where’s your hotel?”</p><p>“The Hyatt.”</p><p>Front passenger seat whistles ominously. “The Hyatt?”</p><p>“Yes, not far from the airport. It’s…”</p><p>“I know where it was. But it’s not there anymore.” He takes out a mobile phone, and shows her the news broadcast. Multiple strikes. The Hyatt just one of them -- completely destroyed. </p><p>She’s speechless. If they hadn’t left early this morning to go get footage, if she’d still been in there…</p><p>The lieutenant puts his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll get you to the British embassy. Hopefully they can get you and your camera man back home.” </p><p>Well, so much for not crying. </p><p>She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand and realizes it’s smeared with ash. She must look a fright. She sniffs. “I’m extremely curious to know  what American military personnel are doing here, when the American government has repeatedly issued statements that they have no intention of getting involved in this conflict.” </p><p>“Ma’am.” Front passenger seat twists in his seat to look at her. “I think you’ll find that we have no affiliation with the American military. We are in fact, college students, studying abroad here.” He gives her a boyish smile, eyes big with faux innocence.  </p><p>“In an active conflict region?”</p><p>“Um, yeah?” Smitty answers. “We heard they’ve got a great club scene.” He smiles, taps something in the console, and starts playing club music at bone-jarring volumes. Her ears still hurt from the explosion. This doesn’t help. </p><p>The front passenger seat smacks the driver’s hand away, says, “not this fucking shit again,” and turns the radio back down. </p><p>“And the M4s and M16s?” </p><p>The man at her left turns to her. “You know the difference between an M4 and an M16?”</p><p>“I know you’re wearing body armor underneath your Adidas hoodie.” </p><p>“She’s a <em>war correspondent</em>,” the lieutenant tells the other man with a weary sigh.</p><p>“Yeah.” Front passenger laughs grimly. “And you’re the one that put her in our vehicle. Good job, <em>Lionel</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>The gates to the British embassy building are closed, a heavy guard stationed in front of it. Smitty pulls the SUV to a stop a block away. The lieutenant gets out first, and she follows after. </p><p>“Ma’am,” he says, “I’ll escort you to the gates. But first, you and I need to have a conversation.” </p><p>“All right.” </p><p>“I saved your life.” </p><p>“I’m extremely grateful for that, Lieutenant.” </p><p>“Jokes about my nickname aside, ma’am, I risked the operational security of my mission to save your life. Do you understand?” </p><p>Camilla swallows. His eyes are clear and cold as they lock with hers. “Yes, I understand.” </p><p>“I’m sure you can put together all sorts of bits of information into a story but you’re not going to. You’re going to forget our names, and our voices, and anything about us. You will not mention me, or any of my men, not to the Embassy, not to anyone at the BBC, and not in any publication.” </p><p>She nods. “I won’t. I promise. You’re already forgotten.” She means it, too. Well, she won’t be able to forget him. She doesn't think she’ll ever be able to forget anything about this morning, even though she’ll probably wish she could. But she’s never betrayed a source. She’s not some salacious gossip mag writer. She’s a professional, and she’s not going to betray the trust of someone who saved her life. And ethics aside, you don’t make it as far as she has, in this business, by burning bridges. She burns this guy, and she knows all her other American military contacts will probably decide she’s too risky to talk to. </p><p>He nods. Swift and decisive. He lifts the back hatch of the SUV, pulls Mike onto his shoulders in a fireman carry. The shard of metal is still sticking out of his eye. She has to look away, or she’s going to be sick. </p><p>They walk toward the British Embassy, and the guards at the gate pull their rifles. She lifts her press badge up in front of her as she approaches. “I’m Camilla Barr, with BBC News. I’m with the BBC. My hotel’s been blown up. My camera man is dead. I’m a British citizen. I’m press -- BBC.” </p><p>The guards surround them, and she sees out of the corner of her eye, the lieutenant gently set Mike’s body on the ground. She’s handing one of the guards her passport. Someone else is speaking into a radio. “I’m Camilla Barr, BBC World News,” she repeats. Someone asks her a question. When she turns to look for him, the lieutenant’s gone. Her eyes flicker down the street towards the parked SUV, but it’s gone too.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's some blood (and lots of strong language) in this chapter, but I feel like after the other chapters, that's probably par for the course now.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Levi leans back on his elbow in the grass to watch Haywood wiggle on his belly to get comfortable. “You taking anyone to the Birthday Ball Friday?” </p>
<p>“No.” Haywood doesn’t even blink, staring down his scope. </p>
<p>“Really? Pretty boy can’t get a date?” Levi can’t help but needle a little bit. </p>
<p>Haywood adjusts his optics slightly. “I don’t need a date. I have a wife.” </p>
<p>Levi laughs. “Like fuck you do, sir.”</p>
<p>“I do.” </p>
<p>“You do not. First I’ve ever heard of her. You keep her in that tiny ass, shit hole apartment of yours?”</p>
<p>“She lives in Manhattan.” Two beats, then Haywood squeezes the trigger on his next exhale. </p>
<p>Levi lifts his scope up to check the target, makes a note in his dope, then frowns, staring at Haywood’s back. “So she’s not coming because she lives in Manhattan? Are you guys separated or something?”</p>
<p>“No.” Haywood shoots again. </p>
<p>“You gonna give me any more information?”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t planning on it.” </p>
<p>“Asshole. What the fuck’s wrong with her, if you won’t introduce her to us?” Levi tracks two marines as they set their gear down a few stations away and adds a belated, “Sir” on the end. </p>
<p>(The first time he’d called First Lieutenant Haywood an asshole, to his face, he’d had the excuse of being short a pint or two of blood, with a tree branch sticking through his thigh, and the lieutenant’s hand, slick with blood from his femoral artery, clamped tight, holding pressure. Haywood had said, “Goddamnit you fucking north Idaho hick, if you die on me in a fucking training exercise and leave me to listen to Briscoe’s bullshit on my own I will find a way to fucking reanimate your corpse, you lazy fucking POG, now get it together and stop bleeding everywhere.” </p>
<p>Levi had blinked a few times to focus on Haywood’s face and then said, clearly, and with great solemnity, “You are such a fucking asshole,” and then passed out. </p>
<p>When he woke up he was in a hospital gown, and Haywood was glaring at him from a plastic chair on the other side of the room. “Congratulations on not dying,” he’d said. </p>
<p>“Maximum effort.” </p>
<p>Haywood had snorted and stood up. “Your ex-wife was trying to get in to see you. I told them to wait until you were up.”</p>
<p>“Which one?”</p>
<p>“How the fuck would I know? Whichever one you forgot to change your emergency contact from.” </p>
<p>“Christ, I don’t want to see either of them.” </p>
<p>“Then update your emergency contacts. I have to get back. I’ll tell your squad they’ll be blessed with your presence again in 4-6 weeks. In the meantime, try to not fall into any more trees, if you could, please, Staff Sergeant.” </p>
<p>“I’ll endeavor to persevere. You’re still a fucking asshole, though, sir.” </p>
<p>As it turns out, once you’ve experienced the intimacy of a man’s fingers holding your femoral artery closed, it’s difficult to remember that you’re not always allowed to call him an asshole.) </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, Staff Sergeant.” Haywood gets himself up off the ground, brushes dirt and grass off his pants, and starts packing his rifle up. “There’s nothing wrong with her, but I figured, on account of her being a French-speaking foreign communist who works at the UN, I wouldn’t subject her to a ballroom full of drunk, inbred, rednecks she thinks of as part of the world’s most expensively outfitted terrorist group.” The corner of Haywood’s mouth is pulling up, just a little, like it does when he’s trying not to laugh. </p>
<p>“Son of a bitch,” Levi says, “Command know?”</p>
<p>Haywood just shrugs. “I was married to her when they did my security clearance check, so if they don’t, it’s their own damn fault.” </p>
<p>“Fuck me. She’s really a communist?”</p>
<p>Haywood zips up his bag. “Socialist, I guess. Lunch? I was thinking about ordering for the platoon.”</p>
<p>“BBQ?” </p>
<p>“Sure, I’ll eat the travesty of a futile attempt at pulled pork people in this state call BBQ because they don’t know any better.” </p>
<p>They check their weapons in at the armory and head towards Levi’s truck. Levi looks at Haywood as he climbs into the passenger seat. “So your girl, she’s hot?” He’s trying to imagine what sort of girl turns Haywood’s head and having a really hard time of it, honestly. It is absolutely 100% none of his business, of course. But Haywood has been 50% more likely to answer personal questions since Levi bled all over him, and he kinda doubts the guy has anyone else to bullshit about his girl with. So.    </p>
<p>Haywood shoots him an incredulous look. Right. Of course she’s hot. </p>
<p>“Whatever, asshole, what does she look like?” </p>
<p>Haywood fishes his phone out of this pocket, unlocks it, and flicks through some pictures, tilts his screen toward Levi. </p>
<p>Fuck, she’s gorgeous all right, even with the glasses and the lumpy gray cardigan that looks like she looted it from an old folk’s home. She looks like she probably makes Haywood sort all his recycling and listen to NPR in the car, even from the other side of the country, but she’s hot as all fuck. Brown curls piled all on top of her head, the type of hair that looks like it’s capable of producing truly spectacular bedhead. Haywood thumbs over to the next image and this one’s a video. She’s sitting on a blanket on a beach, sand on her shoulders, laughing and saying something in French while a dog licks her face. </p>
<p>Huh. </p>
<p>“Where’d you guys meet?”</p>
<p>“College.” Oh, right. Haywood went to Harvard or some shit. That makes sense. If you’re going to meet a smoking hot French-speaking foreign communist, Harvard is probably the place to do it. Not that Levi would know anything about that. He did one semester at McCall Community College before he decided he would rather literally be shot than have to take Pre Calc again. Jokes on him, because he’s doing fucking wind math anyway, calculating the fucking curvature of the Earth like one of those word problems, every time he wants to shoot a rifle further than 1,000 meters. </p>
<p>Levi doesn’t expect Haywood to say anything more about it, but he's staring at the endless loop of the video of her on the beach with the dog, and when he speaks again his voice is kind of distant, and fond. “She wrote an article about how my father’s a war criminal who should be tried at the Hague for the school newspaper her sophomore  year; it ran in the Valentine’s Day edition.” </p>
<p>“Jesus Christ, Haywood.” Levi says, and pulls out of the parking lot. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Haywood says, sounding pleased and puts his phone away.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He’s about to start reading the letter when he looks up and realizes that Reyes has given JCrew a letter. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen JCrew get mail before, besides the odd package himself. It’s a big pink envelope, like a Valentine’s day card or an invitation to a Hello-Kitty themed birthday party.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For those of you interested - Staff Sgt. Asche is Levi, and also "front passenger seat" guy from the chapter with Camilla.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark takes his letters from Reyes and tears into the one from his sister.  There’s an Amazon package, too, that he sets at his feet because he knows what’s in it:  just snacks and shit that he ordered himself. It’s not like he doesn’t talk to his sister and have email and video calls and shit, but she always writes letters, real actual analog letters, when he’s deployed, and it’s weird but he’s always happy to see them. Even if Recon being deployed long enough anywhere to get mail is dumb as fuck. But whatever. They were supposed to be here 6 weeks, and now it’s 6 months. So ordering snacks online it is. </p><p>He’s about to start reading the letter when he looks up and realizes that Reyes has given JCrew a letter. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen JCrew get mail before, besides the odd package himself. It’s a big pink envelope, like a Valentine’s day card or an invitation to a Hello-Kitty themed birthday party. </p><p>All their mail’s already been opened of course, but Mark finds himself watching JCrew pull the card out of the envelope for the sheer novelty and curiosity of it, which means he sees it when the card comes out in a waterfall of pink glitter that falls all over JCrew’s lap and boots. </p><p>“Fucking--” JCrew hisses, half standing and pushing all the glitter off in a futile attempt to brush it off his BDUs. Mark winces a little, even as he's laughing, thinking about the poor fucking mail tech that screened the letter first. That’s literally never going to come out. Next to JCrew, Staff Sgt. Asche laughs, and Mark can’t hear what Grueneich says but it makes JCrew flip her the bird, smiling. </p><p>It sucks that JCrew’s leaving, although they all knew it was gonna happen.  He reupped this morning, promotion ceremony tomorrow, and ships out next week for his MARSOC quals. Sucks, but that was always the LT’s plan. Even shittier that Staff Sgt.’s going MARSOC too, even though Grueneich won’t be a bad replacement. And Mark knows he’ll probably still see them -- Recon and MARSOC coordinate enough together. Either way, it’s only Mark’s problem for another 8 months anyway. There’s no fucking way he’s reupping. Fuck this whole fucking <em>military intervention</em>.</p><p>JCrew shakes more glitter out of the card into the dirt, then opens it up. A big fold out pink “4” popups up when he opens it, and Mark realizes it's one of those cards that plays music and recorded message. It plays some weird little tune and then, clear as crystal, a woman’s voice, sexy with a little bit of an accent says, “<em>You said four years, asshole</em>.” </p><p>Mark looks away cause it sucks to see JCrew looking so pissed. Now he’s gonna be in a fucking mood all week, that’s for sure. A distant pop pop of shots fired outside the gate sound off, and the alarm blares. Mark grabs his helmet from under his seat and shoves it on, picks his rifle up.  JCrew’s slinging his rifle on his shoulder, brushing glitter off his pants as they get in position. </p><p>“I swear to fucking Christ,” Mark hears the LT say to Staff Sgt. Asche as he runs past, “If I die with glitter on my uniform, I’m gonna haunt her.” </p><p>Asche laughs. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll make sure to sprinkle some in your coffin for you.” </p><p>JCrew grins as he pulls his goggles down. “Engles, Li, get on the radio. O’Connor, get up in the tower.”</p><p>“Sir!” Mark acknowledges, already climbing up. It’s not until he’s settled into his nest that he realizes he’s left his sister’s letter on the ground.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Max has been tattooing in Oceanside since her apprenticeship.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Max has been tattooing in Oceanside since her apprenticeship.  She knows marines. Can spot them in a second and tell you what <em>type</em> of marine they are in two. Loud, cocky Boots who haven’t learned to shut up yet. Short-timers and career guys. Grunts and desk jockeys. Enlisted guys, officers, you name it. This one’s cocky, but quiet, something wild in his eyes and an eerie stillness in his limbs. He doesn’t fidget. He sits like a fucking rock, every time she tattoos him. He flirts, as far as she can tell, mostly out of reflex, but never follows through. He’s never once mentioned his career.  </p><p>The first time he’d come in, he’d looked clean, like he didn’t have any ink at all, until he took his shirt off. The skull on his shoulder was done by someone else before she ever got to him. It’s good work. The watercolor on his flank’s even better. She’s pretty sure she recognizes the artist. Lily Baker does watercolors like that -- she’s East Coast, Virginia Beach. Makes sense. Not too far from Little Creek. Quantico. Camp LeJeune. </p><p>When he comes in this time, she doesn’t even have to ask what he wants. She’s tattooed too many marines -- she knows the look of someone coming in about to ask for a memorial piece. They talk through a design. He doesn’t talk about it. She doesn’t expect him to, really, he’s not infantry. Whatever happened, it’s classified.  </p><p>“Put a dog in there, somewhere,” he tells her, jaw tight and eyes red. “Dumb fuck always loved dogs.” </p><p>She tells him she’ll draw it out -- send him some options to look through. She schedules the appointment for the next week. He’s been a good client, reliable, always pays, never flakes out, always polite even when he’s flirting, never makes it weird. He’s the type of client she makes time for in her schedule, at this point. He lingers, a little, after they finish up the consult, not flirting exactly, but maybe something more intentional than any other vibe she’s gotten from him before. It’d be hard not to respond -- he’s a presence, big and vital, that makes her blood thrum. She doesn’t try not to. </p><p>When he shows up for his appointment, he brings her coffee. He’s done that before, and this time his fingers brush against hers when he hands it to her. He takes his pants off, so she can get the stencil on his thigh. He sits easy, as always. </p><p>She’s only ever tattooed his torso before. She gets her tray inks all set up. “Standard pants region disclaimer,” she says as she pushes the hem of his boxers out of the way. “Don’t be embarrassed if you get hard, it happens, it’s a natural reaction and I’m not going to judge you for it. Be a creep about it, and I’ll stab you and then call the police.” </p><p>He smiles a little. “Hard copy.” </p><p>“Haha,” she says. “He who would pun would pick a pocket.” Then: “Stop laughing. I’m about to start the link work, you don’t want wobbly lines do you?”</p><p>They sit in companionable silence for a while as she works on the linework and he sips his coffee. She normally doesn’t talk about personal shit with clients -- she learned about that the hard way after one too many stalkers -- so she talks about music, TV shows that have come out, the new food truck down the street, how she’s tried and failed for the third time to learn how to surf.</p><p>“My wife’s a pretty good surfer,” he says, lying back, eyes closed, half asleep as she works on the very last bit of shading of his dead NCO’s dog. She’s about five minutes from finishing the piece.  It’s the first time he’s ever said anything about his personal life ever. </p><p>“You’ve got a wife?” she asks. “How long have you been married?”</p><p>“Couple of years.” </p><p>She’s never seen a ring on his hand, or the tan line or indentation from one. </p><p>“I’m a little surprised,” she says, because she’s in her 30s and she’s way past the bullshit games part of her life, “because I was pretty sure you were going to ask me out.” </p><p>He rolls his head a little in the chair to look at her, opens his eyes. “Ah. Max, I’m sorry, if I…”</p><p>She sits back on her stool. “You’re tempted, but you’ve got a wife.” </p><p>He exhales. “She’d probably be the first to tell me to go for it, but I’m not...” He shrugs, and trails off. </p><p>She sets her tattoo machine down and cleans the ink and blood off his skin, wiping it down. He’s half hard, something she only half noticed when she was tattooing, but he is, pushing against the fabric of his boxers. When she wraps his leg with tape and cellophane, she’s careful not to brush against him. </p><p>“I get it,” she says. “It’s not always the right time, the right vibe, whatever.” </p><p>She wheels her stool back and says, “All done, have a look.” </p><p>“It’s good,” he says, thumb dragging over the cellophane, voice a little choked up again as he looks at it. “It’s really good. Thanks, Max. You always do good work.” </p><p>She nods. Thinks about it for a second. “We should get coffee sometime.” She holds her hand up when she sees him hesitate. “Not a date. Just friends. You look like you could use one.” </p><p>“All right, I’d like that.”</p><p>“And, next time your wife’s in town, tell her I’ll trade ink for lessons, if she can actually teach me to stay on a board.” </p><p>He grins. “Deal.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The weather alert on JP’s phone says a storm is coming. Actually it says "ALERT SEVERE DUST STORM. TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. HIGH WINDS, INTENSE HEAT AND POOR AIR QUALITY….”</p><p>JP has been working for Médecins Sans Frontières for a while now, but he hasn’t actually been in this part of the world long, and this will be his first big sand storm. He’s sitting out on the steps of the infirmary, waiting as long as he can, watching. He wants to see the wall of sand moving across the earth and sky.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So in general I have tried to keep where Hayes is, and what Hayes is doing geographically vague. This is mostly because it's set in the future and the thought exercise of where the US is sending it's military in 2050 or 60 or wherever just makes me forlorn, so like, I try to not to pick anywhere. This chapter, and Saïd in particular, made me narrow things down, mostly because of language. The Tuareg have different words for themselves and their language etc that are similar but slightly different depending on region.  See below for some great links about Tuareg music!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The weather alert on JP’s phone says a storm is coming. Actually it says "ALERT SEVERE DUST STORM. TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. HIGH WINDS, INTENSE HEAT AND POOR AIR QUALITY….”</p><p>JP has been working for Médecins Sans Frontières for a while now, but he hasn’t actually been in this part of the world long, and this will be his first big sand storm. He’s sitting out on the steps of the infirmary, waiting as long as he can, watching. He wants to see the wall of sand moving across the earth and sky. </p><p>And because he’s waiting, and watching, he sees the man come over the ridge. Moving through the shadows of the canyon, the first stirrings of the wind blowing the scarf around his face. He’s riding a camel, a second tethered to it. He calls out to them as he nears, hand raised. He’s in jeans and a pastel purple hoodie, but his face is covered, the indigo scarf wrapped around his face and head. One of the Imuhar, then.</p><p>And as he approaches, JP can see:  there’s another man, draped over the second camel’s back. JP stands and shouts for Mateo and the others. </p><p>With Mateo’s help, JP gets the man on the ground -- he’s wrapped in a blanket, his head veiled in indigo as well, but when JP rolls him onto his back, searching for a pulse, the cloth slips. He’s blond, his pale skin wind-burned above his short beard, his lips chapped, his skin clammy with fever. </p><p>“He’s been shot,” the Tuareg man says in French. “My friend. He’s been shot. Help him.” </p><p>“Tamara, Joel, get the stretcher! Mateo, get me vitals. Andrej, Nicola, start prepping for surgery!” JP calls out the orders.</p><p>Mateo pulls the blanket away and they both freeze.  Underneath the blanket, the man is dressed in tactical gear. Military issue, but scrubbed clean of any identifying information. No name, no badges, no flag on his arm. </p><p>JP’s hand comes away sticky from the man’s side. “How long ago was he shot, do you know?” he asks the man. </p><p>“Three days.”</p><p>“Three days?” All right, so JP won’t just be fighting blood loss and trauma here, but infection is going to be a major player. Sepsis. Hypovolemic shock. Organ failure. He starts running through possibilities and making note of the supplies he’ll need.  </p><p>The man shrugs. “I cleaned it as best I could, but we had to travel a long way to get here and a border to cross. We could not take my truck, we had to take the camels and stay off the roads. Yesterday, he was able to sit up. This afternoon...” He waves his hand over the injured man. “You see, he gets weaker.”  The man looks out at the darkening sunset. “The aajej is coming.” </p><p>JP steps back as Mateo and Joel heft the man onto a stretcher. Tamara, ever the practical one, says to the man, “You can shelter here through the storm.”</p><p>The man hums. “And what,” he gestures to his camel, “about Stephen? And Zoe? Do you have accommodations for them as well?”</p><p>“We’ve got space for them.” </p><p>“Very well,” JP hears the man accept, as he hurries after the stretcher to go scrub-in. “I accept your hospitality and am grateful for it. I have no gift to bring you, except a half-dead American. I apologize for the discourtesy.” </p><p> </p><p>Four hours later, one code blue crash, two pints of precious type O negative blood, three bags of IV fluid, and some serious antibiotics later, and JP can now say he has performed surgery while his building was being battered by 140 km winds, sweating through 45C temps when the sand clogged up the vents and shut out the electricity and the generator chugged on, wind wailing, pushing sand through every crevice it could find, the door jams and the window frames. JP thinks about the sand he probably sewed up into his patient, despite his best efforts.  </p><p>His patient who is, by some fucking miracle, alive, and in the OR recovery room, which is also the prep room which is also the ICU which is also…. Well, you get it. Space is limited. </p><p>He pulls his gloves and surgical mask off, and shrugs out of his gown. He steps outside into the hall and sinks down to the floor, head against the wall and breathes. Maybe he will live through the night, and JP will have saved one life today.</p><p>The other man is sitting in the hall too, next to an electrical socket, charging his tablet. He looks up at JP.  JP offers him a smile. “He’s alive.”</p><p>“Good. There is no reception in the storm, but I managed to get a text to my family before the connection went down to let them know I arrived safely. My brother will be happy to know he survived.”</p><p>JP leans over and holds out his hand. “I’m, uh.. Dr. Jan Peter de Windt. JP’s fine, though. Nice to meet you.”</p><p>They shake. “Saïd ag Haroun,” the other man introduces himself. “Thank you, Dr. JP, for saving my friend.”   </p><p>JP breathes. “Has he told you who he is, where he’s from? Is there a command you can contact?” </p><p>“His name is Hayes, he says. I found him alone in the desert. His radio was too damaged for us to use, and he did not trust my cell phone. He said they were monitored in Algeria, and he needed to get across the border before making contact on a phone line.” </p><p>“All right,” JP says. No one’s calling anyone anytime soon, anyway, during the storm.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He can’t sleep. It’s too loud, rumbling like a train, like a ghost, like a demon. It’s too hot. His nose bleeds, it’s so dry. </p><p>He gets up in the middle of the night, restless, and decides he’ll check his patient. Down the hall, he can hear the murmur of a voice, soft and low, a light - one little LED by the cot. </p><p>He pauses at the door, to listen, but his patient is still asleep, and Saïd is reading out loud a much dog-eared paperback, and as he leans against the wall, he hears Saïd read:</p><p>
  <em>“The door shut behind them all, and locked. The women stared at it, mesmerized, and observed across it the wavering shadow of an uncanny cloud. Behind the chamfered windows the sun was obscured by drifting wreaths of grey smoke, and the silence filled with the crackling of flames. The youngest surviving Crawford, in leaving, had deftly set fire to the castle.”</em>
</p><p>JP steps into the room, and Saïd nods in greeting but doesn’t stop his reading. JP settles into a chair next to him, and falls asleep, sitting, listening to the rise and fall of his voice, over the wind. </p><p>When he wakes, it’s later, he has a crick in his neck, and Saïd is saying, “I am here, my friend, here, drink.” </p><p>JP watches him drip water into the American’s mouth. The American’s mouth works, slightly, his lips move. When he speaks, his voice rasps. “Saïd.” </p><p>“Yes, I am here. You are in Morocco, at a clinic. And when the storm has passed, we will call your embassy.” </p><p>The American’s eyes flutter open and shut, open and shut and finally he manages them to focus on JP. JP leans forward and feels his pulse. Fast, but steady. “I’m Dr. de Windt,” he says, “stay alive until morning, and I might say you’re out of the woods.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the morning, after he’s checked on the handful of other patients, after he’s had a cup of coffee, he goes to check on the American and finds him propped up on pillows. Saïd has pulled a second cot close, and is lying on his back, and the two of them are arguing about horses. They’re speaking in English, which Saïd speaks as well as he does French. </p><p>“Everyone always hates on chestnut mares,” the American grumbles. “What’s wrong with a bit of temper?”</p><p>“Nothing wrong with temper at all, I’m merely saying that I think the stereotype is overstated, there are plenty of equally bad-tempered bays or…”</p><p>“Doc. Here to tell me I'm not dead yet?” the American interrupts when JP steps inside. </p><p>“Surprisingly, yes. You should be resting, not arguing about horses, though. Has Mateo been around to see you, already?” </p><p>“Pronounced me too jarhead to die. Took some blood, told me there’s no jello, but if I live until tomorrow I can have some kind of porridge.” </p><p>JP grins. “I might be able to rustle up some broth.”</p><p>“Coffee?”</p><p>“Broth. And rest.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he does midday rounds, after a morning clinic that is empty (because of the storm), except for the people there in acute respiratory distress (because of the storm), he brings some masks to the ICU room, for the worsening dust, and finds Saïd has already draped the layers of tagelmust around Hayes's face while he sleeps. The room is otherwise empty and he checks the sleeping man's pulse, listens to his lungs, checks the wound--which is not nearly as red or inflamed as he’d feared--and finds he must agree with Mateos assessment. Too jarhead to die. </p><p>In wandering, he finds Saïd tending to his camels in a garage that is now half stable lodging for Saïd’s two camels and a handful of goats and a stray dog. </p><p>"Still no reception?" he asks. </p><p>"No bars. There won't be any, until the aajej passes. How is my friend?"</p><p>"Remarkably resilient, and sleeping. Have you known him long? You seem close."</p><p>"Only as long as he has been injured. But sometimes a man might know a man for decades and they will never be close. And yet meet someone and within minutes know they will be like brothers. Kindred spirits. Ǎmes sœurs. روح طيبة."</p><p>"Geestverwant," JP agrees, because he has his own friend like that, who he met in university and felt like he knew him, down to his bones, within seconds of meeting him. </p><p> </p><p>Later that afternoon when he walks by the ICU, Hayes is propped up on pillows again, a small glass filled with tea next to him, and he and Saïd and Nicola are playing Hearts. “Rest!” JP urges, popping his head in, but he’s busy treating dust-induced asthma in an 80 year old man and has no time to lecture them further. </p><p> </p><p>That night before he goes to bed, JP checks on his patient one last time. The aajej is still raging outside, sand piling up in the corners everywhere. At first, JP thinks that Hayes is asleep. He’s lying on his good side, with his eyes closed. Saïd is sitting on his cot next to him. He’s got Tamara’s old acoustic guitar and is playing an old Tinariwen song that JP recognizes. His mother used to listen to them a lot, when she was feeling nostalgic.  He knows the sounds of it, if not the words, and he leans against the door frame and listens.  </p><p>When the song ends, Hayes nudges Saïd’s knee. “Play one of the ones you wrote.” </p><p>JP feels someone come up behind him, and Mateo joins him at the doorway, watching. Neither man is paying them either attention. Saïd sings and Hayes listens with his eyes closed and his hand on Saïd’s knee. JP doesn’t speak Tamahaq so he can’t tell much about the lyrics, but the guitar hooks are catchy, and Saïd plays them well, and the words flow over them, smooth and easy. </p><p>After he’s run through a few songs, he shifts tone a little, and Hayes’s eye pops open, “Is that Sturgill Simpson?” JP hears him ask. </p><p>“Obviously,” Saïd replies, and then, “sing if you know the lyrics.”<br/>
Hayes shifts, and starts to sing softly. He has what is probably a clear tenor, if not injured and hoarse from days of dusty and sand-filled air, and Saïd joins him. </p><p>
  <em>”Oh how the breakers roar, They keep pulling me farther from shore.”</em>
</p><p>
JP turns away from the closeness of it. The aching. ‘Assouf’ the Tuareg call it:  longing, homesickness, pain that is not physical. The blues. 
</p><p>
“<em>Bone breaks and heals,</em>” Hayes sings, <em>“but heartache can kill.</em>” 

</p><p>
JP goes to bed and listens to the wind rumble and roar outside, and the guitar down the hall. 

</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
In the morning, as quickly as it came, the wind drops. The temperature returns to normal, and the dust settles out of the air.  He hands Hayes his phone and Hayes calls the US embassy. 
</p><p>
“I gave him my blood chit,” Hayes tells whoever’s on the other line.
</p><p>
“Tell them I’ll take my money in Bitcoin or cash,” Saïd jokes next to him and Hayes rolls his eyes and elbows him. 
</p><p>
 Four hours later a helicopter lands in their goat field. Hayes shakes his hand and then hugs him and they walk with him towards the helicopter where it’s waiting. He pulls Saïd tight, their foreheads touching. 
</p><p>
“Thank you, my friend, I owe you my life.”
</p><p>
“Your government owes me an unspecified amount in reward.” Saïd laughs. 
</p><p>
“For getting me here, sure. For the rest of it -- you saved my life. I won’t forget it. If you ever need anything…”
</p><p>
“Yes, yes,” Saïd says, hugging him again. “I have your email. You have mine, too -- we will stay in touch. Take care of yourself, my friend.” 
</p><p>
After the helicopter leaves, Saïd does, too. He saddles his camels and calls his family who will meet him with a truck somewhere, and shakes JP’s hand, and disappears over the ridge.
</p><p>
JP waves goodbye to him as he goes, and then Tamara shouts that he’s needed in the clinic, and it’s back to work.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Tinariwen song that Saïd sings to Hayes:  https://youtu.be/VoPPMktXCEI<br/>An article about the new generation of desert blues:  https://www.theguardian.com/music/2016/jun/09/kel-assouf-imarhan-new-wave-tuareg-rock-tinariwen-bombino<br/>A youtube video about guitar music in the Sahara:  https://youtu.be/vdW63HFTT3Q</p><p>And, totally different genre, Sturgill Simpson, the song that Saïd and Hayes sing together: https://youtu.be/sg209CadVQM</p><p> </p><p>also edited to add because I forgot:  the passage Saïd is reading to Hayes is from the Dorothy Dunnett book, Games of Kings</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>She’s just watching a few couples take the dance floor when General Richmonds approaches her, her gray hair pulled into a tight neat bun and a tall blond man at her side, hair shaved high and tight, bright blue eyes in a sun-tanned face. </p><p>“Ms. Barr,” the general greets her, “a pleasure to see you again. Have you met Captain Haywood?”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Camilla was a little surprised to get an invitation to the Marine Corps ball in DC. It’s definitely <em>not</em> the sort of thing foreign war correspondents are normally invited to, but she’s here, technically, with the Royal Marine exchange officers who are visiting Quantico at the moment. </p><p>She’s just watching a few couples take the dance floor when General Richmonds approaches her, her gray hair pulled into a tight neat bun and a tall blond man at her side, hair shaved high and tight, bright blue eyes in a sun-tanned face. </p><p>“Ms. Barr,” the general greets her, “a pleasure to see you again. Have you met Captain Haywood?”</p><p>Captain Haywood takes her hand in a firm handshake. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Barr,” he says calmly, and the memory of his voice hits her like a gunshot. How could she have forgotten those eyes? She’d never seen his face, but she didn’t think she’d ever forget those striking blue eyes staring into her soul over his balaclava. </p><p>“Are you all right, Ms. Barr? You look a little pale.” </p><p>She coughs. “Fine, thank you, just… something in my throat.” </p><p>“I’ll get you a drink,” he says with a formal sort of smile and a salute in the general’s direction, before walking away. </p><p>“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the general remarks.</p><p>Camilla smiles tightly. “Just a little surprised. Captain Haywood looks very much like someone I used to know,” she finishes vaguely. </p><p>“Hm.” She sips her own drink. “He looks a great deal like his father looked when he was younger, and like his brother too, of course.  This one seems to have a surprising amount of decency, though.  Where he found it growing up in that pit of vipers, I’ll never guess.” </p><p>“That seems like a… pretty frank assessment of some pretty powerful people to make in front of a journalist.” </p><p>“Is it? But then again, you’ve never dabbled in American political correspondence."</p><p>Camilla… doesn’t know what to say to that, and anyway, she doesn’t say anything because the captain returns. She’s surprised the drink he presses into her hand isn’t alcohol -- but it’s just a bottle of water.</p><p>“Thank you, Captain.” </p><p>“Haywood,” General Richmond says, “I was just telling Ms. Barr here about what a remarkable woman your wife is.” </p><p>“That she is, ma’am.” Haywood turns to her. “Ms. Barr, would you like to dance?” </p><p> </p><p>Captain Haywood leads her onto the dance floor and Camilla says, “Captain Haywood, you look like a man who was once forced through enough dance lessons to know how to foxtrot.” </p><p>He laughs and pulls her into position. “I suffered through cotillion classes like anyone else. Come on then, Ms. Barr, BBC World News.” </p><p> </p><p>Captain Haywood does know how to foxtrot. </p><p>“What’s your wife like?” Camilla asks, as they make their way around the dance floor. Because she could imagine her. Imagine this man’s whole life laid out, neat and tidy. Cotillion classes in junior high. Debutantes and boarding school. University at… the Citadel, maybe? Annapolis? An officer’s wife with pretty manners and a well connected family to host his dinner parties. </p><p>“My wife’s Bells Teixeira,” he says without missing a beat, and then, “how do you feel about lifts?”</p><p>“I feel good about them with a partner I trust. Go ahead. Teixeira… The international labor law rights activist?”</p><p>“That’s her.” </p><p>Camilla almost misses a step. “That’s… really very unexpected.” </p><p>Hayes grins. “Yeah, I’m a pretty lucky son of a bitch.” And then they spin,  and he lifts her above his head, easy like she’s floating. </p><p> </p><p>Later that evening, after she’s networked, and talked, and danced with any number of sharply dressed marines, American and Brits alike, she finds herself with a glass of cold champagne, cooling down on a terrace in the damp chill of a November night. And Haywood, leaning against a balcony next to her with a glass of whiskey. </p><p>There’s no one around and she asks, after a comfortable silence, “Why did you do it? It was very heroic, but in my experience most recon teams don’t risk exposure or deviate off mission, especially for the press.” It’s a question she’s thought about from time to time, because it was goddamned reckless of him, really, and she’d often wondered what sort of trouble saving her had gotten that faceless lieutenant into. </p><p>He laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. “It wasn’t heroism, just selfishness,” he tells her. “You reminded me of her.”</p><p>“Your wife?”</p><p>“Standing there in the middle of a war zone, in your blazer and your heels. You reminded me of my Bells. You were in shock. I don’t think you even noticed but your car exploded about thirty seconds after I pulled you away. I saw you, and I thought of her, and I couldn’t leave you there.”</p><p>She sets her glass down on the terrace rail. “You must have caught merry hell for it.” </p><p>His laugh is brighter this time with genuine amusement. “Oh, like you wouldn’t believe. But I don’t regret it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Captain Haywood says, “Bells was really mad when I re-upped.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Captain Haywood says, “Bells was really mad when I re-upped.” </p><p>And Lori says, “being an officer’s spouse isn’t for everyone. I’m sure she’d rather you were close to home.”</p><p>Haywood snorts. “It’s not that. It’s just she’s… not the biggest fan. Of the military.”</p><p>“That’s a pretty big difference in values for a relationship when one of the people in it is in the military.”</p><p>He shrugs. “It’s not like I don’t see her points.” </p><p>“So why did you renew your contract then?”</p><p>Hayes looks out the window. He’s quiet so long she begins to think he’s not going to answer and then finally he says, “Because I’m good at it, and I like it.”</p><p>“Did you tell her that?”</p><p>“Bells doesn’t--  She. She was raised happy. Like I said. Everyone in her family gives a shit about each other, and they love each other and they all try to act like decent people. She doesn’t get how rare that is. I love how fierce she is. What a stone cold bitch she can be, if she sets her mind to it, but deep down, under all the teeth. Bells is Good. Kind. She <em>hurts</em> when the world isn’t good. It bothers her, fundamentally, when the world isn’t kind. I love that about her. But I wasn’t… I’m not. I was raised by assholes. And I guess I am one too. Maybe some people are just made to make the world better and some are made for war.”</p><p>“Is that what you think? That you’re made for war?”</p><p>“I’m good at it. I don’t. I’m not like my brother. I don’t like all the fucked up parts. But I like... There’s a lot about the military that I like. I like what I do, and I like that I’m good at it.” </p><p>“Lots of people thrive in the military because of the community, the routine, the brotherhood, the discipline, the structure. That doesn’t mean that their souls are fundamentally less good than people who don’t do well in the military. Or that they’re only suited for warfare. That same structure and community can be found elsewhere.”</p><p>He grins at her wearily, “I know plenty of marines that would argue with you, and say that a marine without a war is a sad marine. But I guess, I don’t just mean personally. I mean, I guess, sometimes, it just feels like, as much as I want Bells to be right about the world. Sometimes, it just feels like, if we can be as good at it as we are. War. I mean. If I can be...as suited to it as I am. It seems fundamental to human nature. I don’t think you can have humans, without them fighting with each other. And if there’s going to be fighting,” he shrugs, “it’s better to be the one winning. It sucks, but the world’s shit. People are shit. It’s always been that way.” </p><p>“I suspect you and Bells are talking at cross-angles a little here. You think that making the world better would require some fundamental shift in the nature of humanity. Bells thinks that any change you can make is worth it, even if it’s temporary. And, I imagine, not that I’ve spoken to her, but from what you’ve said about her and how she thinks, I would imagine she also understands that change has to come from the root of the things causing it. If you can change the environment, you can make real, lasting, fundamental changes. You’re looking at the bigger picture and saying small changes are worthless, when I think, to the people the small changes are happening to, they would very much disagree. You’re catastrophizing. Which we’ve talked about.”</p><p>“Yeah, alright. That’s… a good point.” </p><p>“Positive change in the world, Captain Haywood, is a war of attrition. It’s a bone-tedious war of victories in inches.”</p><p>“I’m not.” He clears his throat. “You know my MOS. I’m a Direction Action kinda guy. Literally.”</p><p>Lori says, “Let me ask you this. From what you’ve told me, you work hard to be a good officer. You’re here, talking to me because you want to be a good husband. What is the point, on an individual scale, of being kind, of trying to be a good person, a good officer, a good friend, a good husband, if someone else out there in the world is being an asshole?” </p><p>“Yeah, alright,” Haywood leans his head back against the wall, “You’ve got a point, obviously.” </p><p>“But you already knew that. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re trying.” </p><p>Hayes squares his shoulders. “Yeah. I knew that.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lori's line about positive change being a war of attrition is paraphrased from a tumblr post I have long since lost the link to, because I never tag anything and tumblr is a hellsite. Credit to...whoever wrote that tumblr post.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Reckless’s packmate dies on a hunt.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, although the part of me that thinks all dogs are good dogs is impressed when dogs have jobs and do those jobs well (what good dogs!), I actually feel pretty strongly that dogs (or any other animal) shouldn't be brought into human bullshit (like war), that they can't consent to. And the fact that humans have used dogs in war for thousands of years is yet another example of how we don't deserve them. </p><p>That being said -- Reckless is named after Staff Sergeant Reckless, a famous horse in the Marine Corps during the Korean War (her Wikipedia page is quite the read). So of course Horse-girl Hayes recognizes her name. And, while someone does die in this chapter and this chapter is pretty much all hurt no comfort, its not the dog that dies.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Reckless’s packmate dies on a hunt. </p><p> </p><p>Reckless learned The Big Jump in the hot place. Hot and dry, so her nose was never wet. That’s where she met her packmate, when she was just a puppy who hadn’t grown into her feet and ears yet.  When she was a little puppy, the humans called her “brave meid” when she learned to sit and wear her vest. In the first hot place, where she meets her packmate, they call her Reckless and her packmate says “good girl” and “sweetheart.” </p><p>She learned a lot of things there with her packmate, before they traveled to join the rest of the pack. She was used to the vest already, but the things they put on her eyes before the Big Jump took a lot to get used to. She learned how to hunt and find the things her pack is looking for by scent. Her nose works so much better than the humans in her pack. She learned to speak her pack’s language by the way they move their forepaws. Stop. Sit. Heel. Search. Guard. She learned not to jump or hide at the loud cracking noise in the air the pack makes sometimes. It’s the noise they make when they hunt, she learned. </p><p>When she finished training, they pinned something to her vest, everyone standing around her. A tall man she’d only smelled a few times says, “MWD Reckless, do you solemnly swear that you will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that you will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that you take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that you will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which you are about to enter, so help you God?” </p><p>Her packmate lifts her paw into the air and says, “She does, Colonel.”  When he sets it down her packmate scratches her ears and say, “Welcome to the Marine Corps, babygirl, oorah!”</p><p>There’s another long trip. Her packmate climbs into her cage and sleeps next to her on their pillow. She puts her nose by his neck, so she smells him, not the scents of the flying-thing and the sharp too-high air. </p><p>In the new place, Reckless met her new pack. The packleader reminds her a little of the first people, when she was a puppy, even though he smells different. She wags her tail and he squats down to greet her, and pets her head. </p><p>“Welcome to MARSOC, Second Lieutenant Reckless,” packleader says, “you’ve got quite a namesake.”   </p><p>He slips her treats sometimes. Her packmate always chides him for it. “You’ll spoil her, JCrew” he says.</p><p>But packleader scratches her ears and says, “Dogs deserve to be spoiled, Sergeant.” </p><p> </p><p>This is a hunt like most of the other hunts Reckless has been on since she joined the pack. They do a Big Jump out of the sky, Reckless strapped to her packmates chest and they land somewhere cold. The ground is rocky and bare but the air smells like snow. Reckless’s role in the pack is to smell for the sharp-bad-scent that means danger. To listen and make sure her pack is not being hunted themselves, while they hunt other packs. </p><p>They make the Big Jump and then they run under the moon. The ground goes fast under their feet and Reckless is happy happy happy to run with her pack. </p><p>For two days, her pack tracks their quarry in the mountains. Reckless’s packmate feeds her bits of meat from his food pack, and she licks his fingers and his chin in thanks. When the packleader sneaks her bits of egg, she does the same. </p><p>On the third night, they fight the other pack and her packmate falls to the ground. He stinks like blood and pain and fear and Reckless stands over top of him. One of the rival pack tries to come near him, but she growls. He raises one of the short sticks that make a loud noise at her and she flattens her ears. Then he falls to the ground, blood coming from his mouth and his heart silent. Reckless doesn't leave her packmate, and bares her teeth and growls at anyone who comes near her packmate. </p><p>The fight is over fast, and packleader shouts, “Carlson, get on the radio for medevac!”  </p><p>One of the other pack members comes toward them and Reckless growls, snapping at him. Not safe! No one can touch her packmate, he’s bleeding, heart slow and slow barely there, then stopped. </p><p>“Put your fucking gun down,” packleader says. </p><p>“The helo’s coming, Captain, we’re not going to be able to get his body loaded with her guarding him like that.” </p><p>“Don’t shoot that fucking dog, Corporal. I’ll get her off him.” </p><p>Packleader drops down to his knees and crawls forward. “Hey, babygirl, hey, sweet thing, can I see your daddy?”</p><p>Reckless growls, but settles down on her haunches. Packleader reaches a paw out to her. When she doesn’t bite he moves closer and touches her packmate, paw to the side of his neck.</p><p>“Shit,” packleader says, “fucking fuck, he’s dead, shit.” </p><p>Packleader straps her to his vest when the flying thing comes for them and lifts them into the sky. Reckless lies on her packmate’s body, wrapped up in cloth, and packleader sits next to her, petting her head. He smells like hot salt sad tears and the long-trip back is quiet, except for the noise of the flying-thing through the air. </p><p> </p><p>“We don’t deserve dogs,” Reckless hears the packleader’s second say when her belly drops with the flying-thing in the way she knows means they’re landing soon. </p><p>Packleader closes his eyes and rests his head on his second’s shoulder. “No one gets what they deserve, Asche.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Levi is making Parthian chicken in the tiny kitchenette of some kind of temporary military housing/ hotel-like situation on the NATO base in Lisbon.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Levi is making Parthian chicken in the tiny kitchenette of some kind of temporary military housing/ hotel-like situation on the NATO base in Lisbon. It’s nice enough, although the room's a little crowded for the 7 of them and the fact that they’d stuck Haywood with them and not given him a separate room in officer’s quarters is pretty hilarious. But Haywood had just rolled his eyes and thrown his bag on the bed closest to the door.  Levi’s pretty sure they’d had to scramble to find space for them, anyway, and it’s not like they’re here longer than the 9 hours waiting for their flight back, so it’s not like it matters. Nicer than sleeping on the floor in the hangar which is what they normally do.</p><p>Levi is making chicken, because he’s hungry. And because he found the shop selling fresh asafetida, and now that he’s got the real stuff he’s going to try the legit version of this recipe. But it’s better to have practice run feeding his marines, who will eat anything, just to test. The asafetida <em>smells</em> like rancid farts, so… it needs testing. Before he cooks it for Aurora, who, despite her willingness to put his dick in her mouth, has a delicate and refined palate, even if she is a history nerd who geeks out about ancient food. </p><p>“What the fuck kind of chicken are you making, Gunny?” Carlson asks from where he is sitting, staring at the Portuguese news in nothing but his silkies.</p><p>“This is Parthian chicken, you uncultured swine.” Levi says and dumps, as per the Youtube instructions, a cup of red wine onto the chicken. </p><p>“It smells like ass.” Edwards remarks.</p><p>“Seriously, Gunny, can we just order delivery from somewhere on base?” </p><p>“You will all eat this chicken, and that is an order, marine.” Levi says, solemnly, and shoves the chickens into the tiny-ass European oven. </p><p>“Parthian chicken isn’t even a thing. You just made that up. Seriously,  I have been in fucking safe houses and sleeping in dirt for 4 weeks, I don’t want any weird herbs, I just want fucking Dominos.” Morales groans.</p><p>“It is a real thing. And I am attempting to educate and enlighten you all, and you are sneering at my chicken. The captain knows about Parthian chicken,” Levi raises his voice to be heard over the bathroom fan, “Because I’ll bet 10 bucks he was one of those weird prep-school kids who took Latin and had to make it for some fucking show-and-tell during Roman history and culture day or some shit.” </p><p>JCrew pokes his head out of the bathroom to flip Levi off, and then goes back to brushing his teeth. </p><p>“He was not that big of a nerd.” Carlson says. </p><p>JCrew comes out of the bath, scrubbing the towel through his head and says, “The Parthian Empire existed between 247 BCE and 224 CE, and began with the Parni tribe in what's now northern Iran, but the Empire’s borders spread through larger areas. They controlled the trade routes on the silk roads going between Indian and China into Greece and Rome. Parthian Chicken was a popular Roman recipe, inspired by Parthian cuisine.”</p><p>Carlson looks at JCrew, “Why are you like this?”</p><p>“Money and trauma. Why are you still leaving your socks on the floor? Didn’t some sergeant pit that out of you when you were still a boot?”</p><p>“Of all the deep-fake fuckery,” Edwards shouts in indignation, staring at the TV, ignoring them. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“How’s JCrew talking from the Pentagon, if he’s here?” He gestures to the TV, where a man that looks eerily like their good captain is talking. His hair is a shade longer than JCrew’s, and his eyes are. Well, there’s just something different about him. It’s not JCrew, even though, yes, it does look <em>a lot</em> like him.</p><p>Also the name on the chyron says “Major William Haywood" and he's in Army dress greens. </p><p>“That’s his brother, dipshit.”</p><p>Every head in the room turns to look at where JCrew is pulling his undershirt over his head.</p><p>“You have a brother, sir?” Cazacu asks.</p><p>“For my sins,” Haywood answers and starts buttoning up his blouse. </p><p>“Is he like…” Carlson looks at the TV, “Your evil twin?”</p><p>“Not a twin, just evil.”</p><p>“Are you guys <em>clones</em>?”</p><p>Haywood takes the remote out of Carlson’s hand, and changes the channel to the weather. “My working theory is more Satan-spawn related, but sure, clones could be a thing.” </p><p>Levi makes eye contact and waves JCrew into the kitchenette. Bumps his shoulder against him. Pours the captain a glass of the leftover wine that didn’t get poured on the chicken. Haywood takes it without comment but doesn’t drink from it, just sets it down on the counter and starts rolling his sleeves. “Things getting serious with Aurora, then?”</p><p>“Somehow she hasn’t kicked me to the curb, so I guess so.” </p><p>“Gonna get married? Third time’s the charm.”</p><p>Levi snorts. “Thinking about it, actually.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Gunny’s gonna be an army wife!” Carlson agrees. “Gonna make all the gate guards salute him once he gets that blue sticker.” </p><p>“There you go, Asche, you’ve found your calling," JCrew jokes. </p><p>Levi grins and then throws a potato at Carlson telling him, “Fuck yeah, I am. Have fun on your fucking GI bill, sitting in classes with dipshit kids. I’m gonna cook dinner every night and go to hot-yoga or whatever, while she does whatever the fuck anesthesiologists do, and it’s gonna be <em>great</em>.” </p><p>JCrew kicks at his leg and gives Levi a look when Levi glances over. “Seriously, Asche. Congrats.”</p><p>“Yeah well,” Levi feels himself blushing a little, and looks back at where he was chopping potatoes, “Figure the Marines have trained me up to be as good of a house-husband as any one. I sure as fuck can iron better than she can. Have you seen the bullshit the Army calls uniforms? Sloppy. And she makes more than me anyway, even with the combat pay and everything else. This time when I get divorced, maybe I won’t be the one that gets bent over and fucked in the bank account.” </p><p>JCrew kicks his foot again. Levi doesn’t look up from his potatoes, but he says, “Yeah, yeah, I know, she’s great, it’ll be better this time, but you know me, I’m a pessimist.”</p><p>“Happy for you.” </p><p>“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Got 18 months left anyway.”</p><p>“Always figured you’d go career.”</p><p>Levi shrugs, “Won’t be half as fun once they chain you to a desk.”</p><p>“They’d get you a new officer to boss around.”</p><p>“But no one’s as fun to boss around as you, JCrew.”</p><p>Haywood smiles at him. “Yeah that's what Bells says too."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In the Superstition universe, i.e. the not-worst timeline, marines never lost their silkie shorts.  </p><p>Asafetida (or asafoetida) smells bad raw but when cooked into food is great. Levi could have ordered it off of Amazon, or bought it from probably any Indian grocery store in the US, no special reconnaissance missions to other countries needed to acquire it. Parthian chicken is a recipe from a 5th century Latin cookbook called Apicius de re Coquinaria, which has recipes written in both classical and vulgar Latin. There are, in fact, plenty of YouTube videos on replicating the dish.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Melody Mercado retires as a Master Sergeant.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Melody Mercado retires as a Master Sergeant. Her son flies home from grad school for the ceremony and her daughter brings Mel’s grandbaby for her to hold and coo at, and Mel’s wife cooks a whole pig in the backyard for the afterparty. It’s a good day. </p><p>Nyugen’s been out for years -- went back to school, got a degree in marine biology and spends all his time counting frogs in the Dismal Swamp or something. Mel is damn glad to see him. The end of the evening finds Nyugen and some of the others from her deployments sitting around a picnic table under the mulberry tree, deep in their cups and reminiscing. When most of the others have left or gone to bed, Mel takes a second to step away and duck into her office. She pulls out the blue box and brings it out to the picnic table and cracks it open.  </p><p>Captain Haywood had RSVP’d to her retirement party with a “maybe”, a handwritten note apologizing in advance, saying he hoped he’d be able to make it but couldn’t predict his mission status, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.  </p><p>“This,” she says, opening the bottle, “is from JCrew.” </p><p>“Awww, JCrew,” Nyugen says as she pours some for him. “What’s he up to these days? He still in Recon?”</p><p>“Off doing super secret squirrel shit for MARSOC,” Mel tells him. “Got a bronze star last year.” </p><p>“Huh. Good for him.” Nyugen says and lifts his glass. “To JCrew, may his hair always do that thing and his pants always fit like that.”</p><p>Mel clinks her glass to his with a laugh. </p><p>“Who’s JCrew?” Stilgoe asks.</p><p>“JCrew,” Nyugen takes a deep sip of his Scotch, “was the greenest fresh-from Quantico Butter-bars you’ve ever seen, and Mercado trained him up right, broke him in.” </p><p>‘He’s a good egg,” Mel says. “Always stuck up for us, never let the shit roll down if he could help it.”</p><p>“God,” Mcelhannon laughs, “remember that time we got blown up.”</p><p>“Which time?” Nyugen jokes. </p><p>“The time with the ditch.”</p><p>Mel starts laughing. “Oh god, his face.” </p><p>“That was the minute I knew he wasn’t a shithead,” Nyugen says. “God, his face, he was so fucking pissed at that other lieutenant.” </p><p>“Wait what happened,” Stilgoe asks.</p><p>“Okay,” Mel says, settling in for a good story, “so there we are, in country, doing our thing. We’re in a convoy, and we go over an IED.”</p><p>“Like you do,” Nyugen says.</p><p>Mel nods, “Like you do. Two of the Humvees go in the ditch. One of our guys, English, is pretty hurt, everyone else is you know. Concussed. Sore. Pissed off.”</p><p>“Welcome to the Marine Corps, here’s another TBI,” Nyugen mutters. </p><p>“Right,” Mel agrees. “So we call for the medevac for English and some others who were banged up, and for transport to come get the blown-up Humvees, and afterwards everyone who wasn’t emergently in need of medical attention is sitting down in the shade of the trucks, getting checked out, and the transportation unit rolls up.”</p><p>“Before the medevac,” Nyugen adds. </p><p>“Before the medevac,” Mel nods, “because of course they did. And they all jump out, and look at us, and look at the Humvees in the ditch and their LT puts his hands on his hips and is like ‘get the Humvees out of that ditch.’</p><p>“No, no,” Nyugen cuts her off, “you did a terrible job at that. He’s like ‘Hmmm…. I’m going to need you marines to get those Humvees out of the ditch, so if you could get started on that, that would be great,’” Nyugen mimics, “in the <em>office space boss</em> voice, you know? God that little shit was the absolute worst.” </p><p>“Right.” Mel says, “Like that. To <em>us</em>. While we’re sitting there after we’ve been <em>blown up</em>. And we’re just <em>staring</em> at him, because, like, is he fucking serious right now? And then he just looks at me and Nyugen like we’re fucking idiots and repeats himself and then all of a sudden JCrew’s there, and I swear to god, I thought I knew what he looked like when he was pissed off, before but he was MAD. Like Big Mad.”</p><p>“Stone cold.” Nyugen nods. “Like just fucking,” he waves a hand in front of his face vaguely. “Scary.” </p><p>“And he’s like, ‘What did you just say to my marines, lieutenant?’”</p><p>“And we’re all, OH SHIT!” Mcelhannon laughs. “Like, I’m lying on a field stretcher, and my nose is bleeding, and all of a sudden I’m like, oh shit, hold up, I gotta see this, JCrew’s about bust someone’s ASS, stop taking my vitals I gotta watch this.” </p><p>Mel takes another sip of her Scotch and savors the perfectness of the memory. “And the transportation LT--”</p><p>“Jameson!” Nyugen snaps his fingers. “Lieutenant Jameson! That was his name!”</p><p>“Oh! Yeah, Jameson. So Lieutenant Jameson starts talking about how it’s not his team’s job to get the Humvees out of the ditch, it’s just his team’s job to tow them back to the base.” </p><p>“Right,” Nyugen snorts, “pulling things out of ditches is something for us dumb grunts to do.” </p><p>“And JCrew just fucking lays in to him.” </p><p>“And like,” Nyugen says, “I feel like I should add, JCrew never fucking did that. Like, he’d kind of bitch about stuff if it wasn’t squared away or tell someone to shut up if they were being annoying, but if he ever seriously had to counsel someone or something he’d do it private.”</p><p>Mel nods. “Praise in public, correct in private, he never said a word to any of us publicly if we fucked up. Ever. But this 2nd lieutenant, JCrew told him they had one fucking job to do and they couldn’t even find the gumption to do it, and that he was really standing there, asking people who’d just been blown up to get off their stretchers and move a Humvee because his team was too fucking lazy to do their own goddamn jobs. Jesus, it was like everything you’d ever wish someone would say and never does, god it was glorious.”</p><p>Stilgoe asks, “So, what happened?”</p><p>“Oh, the guy got all fucking red in the face and started saying how he was going to make sure his XO heard about this and everything and JCrew was just like, ‘Please, absolutely go take it up the chain of command that you can’t discharge your duties to the best of your abilities as befits a United States Marine, I cannot wait to see how that goes for you,’ and the guy just, grumbled and backed down and got his people pulling the Humvees out and the medevac came and started triaging people.</p><p>“So did that LT ever actually complain?”</p><p>Mel shrugs. “If he did, we never heard anything about it.” </p><p>Mel pours them all another round and Mcelhannon says, “Fuck, JCrew even saved my credit score.”</p><p>“He did not,” Silgoe laughs. “Shut up.” </p><p>“He did! So I’m like… a dumbass 19 year old E-2, don’t know nothing ‘bout nothing.”</p><p>“As one is,” Nyugen nods. </p><p>Mel laughs. </p><p>“And we get back from our deployment, and I’m all stoked about combat pay and shit, and I’m gonna go buy a car. My first new car. So I go to this place right off base.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Nyugen groans. </p><p>“Yeah, exactly, and they talk me into this truck. You know. Extended cab. All the bells and whistles, whatever, and I’m so excited about it. The day I go to pick it up, I'm getting off duty, and I run into the LT and he’s like making small talk or whatever, and I tell him I’m going to go buy my truck and I’m all excited, and then, because I’m a dumbass, I ask him if he’d give me a ride to the dealership.”</p><p>Mel snorts at that, and pours herself another glass of Johnnie Walker.</p><p>“And instead of telling me to go fuck myself, like he should have, or, like, to go ask someone else in barracks, or whatever, he says sure, and drives me to the dealership. And then! And then! He goes in with me, and sits down and asks to read my financing agreement, because I tell him in the car that the dealership said they’d finance it so I didn’t have to go through my bank, and he sits down and reads through it and then he starts going on about predatory lending and criminal interest rates and the guy is like well you know, his credit’s not very good, because like, I mean, whatever, I was 19, I didn’t have any credit one way or the other, and he’d be happy to lower the interest rate if JCrew would co-sign for me, and JCrew looks up from the paper and stares at him and then says, ‘After reading this, I wouldn’t sign a group birthday card if you handed it to me until I’d had three different lawyers go through it with a fine tooth comb, but I’d be happy to sign a witness statement on PFC Mcelhannon’s complaint to whatever department at the police station handles fraudulent lending.’” </p><p>Nyugen giggles and closes his eyes. “Is that why there was that weird week where he did cadence when we were running during PT, and all his fucking cadence calls were songs about how to calculate compound interest and the evils of balloon clauses?”</p><p>“Yes,” Mcelhannon says. “That is absolutely why. And. And then, since I couldn’t buy a truck there, he sat with me outside while I called Navy Fed, and talked me through how to get a car loan.” </p><p>Mel pours them all one more round of Johnnie Walker and lifts her glass. “To JCrew,” she says, “wherever he is right now.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“To JCrew,” she says, “wherever he is right now.”</p><p>Where JCrew is.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I got extremely mired in the logistics and bureaucracy writing this chapter, and then was reassured by Dangercupcake who convinced me not to delete all of it just because I was frustrated with fake military logistics and benevolently helped me pick call-signs since I was too brain-stressed to name anyone anything except nouns that were directly in front of me, so you have them to thank for the pilot's call-sign not being "coffee mug."  If you are reading this, and know enough about these things to realize how incorrect everything is, please suspend disbelief through the whole chapter.  </p><p>Also, because this chapter is very lingo-heavy I put a little reference thing for the abbreviations/call signs etc at the bottom. Also, I know this fic already has a Violent Military Altercations tag, but yeah... Violent Military Altercations are 97% of this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Little Birds come in fast and hot in tight formation, strafing cover fire.  Kindel closes his eyes, and steadies his breath. One, two, three, four, hold two three four, out two three four, hold two three four. The bird dips, hovering above the ground. He opens his eyes, his body tenses, ready for action. He feels that telltale sign -- time feels like it’s slowing, his heartbeat is fast but his mind feels empty and focused. Captain Haywood lifts his hand, and signals them off. He jumps. </p><p>They’re running as soon as their boots touch the mud -- a full out sprint, guns drawn. There’s no time to serpentine, they just run, as fast as they can, a straight shot, and pray the helos give them enough cover. A flicker of motion at his 1 o’clock and he shoots, a three round burst, but he doesn’t stop running. </p><p>Cazacu and Asche breach the entry. It’s fast, and brutal, bodies hitting the ground, making obstacles for them to get over to get down the hallway. Kindel has it memorized, like they all do. Through the room, down the hall, right, right, left. Door. A side door opens to his left, and Kindel doesn’t think, just swings his rifle butt and knocks whoever it is down. He hears a <em>pop pop</em> of suppressed small arm fire behind him. </p><p>The captain covers the door and Asche kicks it down. Kindel and Cazacu clear it while Asche heads to the target.</p><p>Asche pulls the asset up, gets one leg and one arm over his shoulder.</p><p>In his earpiece, Kindel hears Captain Haywood say “Target secured, evac now.”  </p><p>In the 45 seconds it took them to get down the hall and back, Edwards, Song, and Morales have held the entryway clear. Song motions them through and soon as Asche passes the threshold they’re running again towards the helos.</p><p>The helos hover for them to get in. “Hurry up!” Mountaingem Two's pilot shouts into their comms, “They’ve got mortars, get the fuck in!” </p><p>Asche pushes their target up for Kindel to lift into the bird. From the other bird,  Song signals Haywood and Haywood signals their pilot that they're clear to leave. </p><p>As the pilot lifts off, Kindel hears the whistle of the mortar as it explodes way to close on the wall next to them. The helo surges into the air. Kindel closes his eyes. </p><p>“What’s going on?” he sees the target ask, voice inaudible over the noise. </p><p>“Don’t worry!” he hears Haywood shout. “We’re Navy SEALS, we’re rescuing you.” </p><p>“Fucking SEALS.” He hears Asche laugh through the comms in his helmet. </p><p>Haywood slaps Kindel's leg. “Good job, GIG-3.” Kindel opens his eyes. </p><p>“Thanks, GIG-6.” </p><p>“You didn’t tell me I did a good job, sir.” Gunny jokes. </p><p>“Well, it’s not your first mission, is it?”</p><p>“Oh, so that’s how it is, sir. You’re only nice and sweet for someone’s first time, and then it’s wham, bam, thank you, GIG-7, for securing a vulnerable asset, but your performance was only satisfactory.” </p><p>Haywood laughs. “Vapor, will you divert a couple of klicks to the west, I need to dump GIG-7 into that lake over there.” </p><p>The pilot shoots them a grin. “Sorry, boys,” she says, “it’s back to the FOB for you. I’ll take you swimming another day.”</p><p>Kindel closes his eyes again, and breathes through the other side of the adrenaline spike. The wind on his face feels good. He’s always liked riding in helicopters, and the Little Birds are fast, agile, fun. They did it. He did it. A successful first mission. Twenty minutes, back to the forward operating base, debrief, getting this guy to a hospital. </p><p>When he opens them again it’s because their pilot is saying, “FOB Minerva, this is Mountaingem Two, repeat that. Over.”</p><p>The air in the helo is suddenly, immediately tense. Haywood is leaning in, straining to look at Captain Anand’s face, instead of dangling half-out like he had been, staring at the scenery. </p><p>The pilot swallows and breathes her nose, then says. “Mountaingem One, this is Mountaingem Two, did you copy FOB status. Over.”</p><p>“Mountaingem Two, this is Mountaingem One. FOB Minerva under fire. Repeat, FOB Minerva under attack.” </p><p>Kindel looks at Asche and Morales and the captain because… what does that even mean? How can the FOB be under attack? They’ve been gone less than an hour. </p><p>But as they come over the hill, Kindel can see the base -- there’s smoke. There’s people. <em>Not their people</em>. Trucks. <em>Not their trucks</em>. There’s the flash of muzzle fire. There’s a lot of people. </p><p>“Holy fuck!” The helo gunner, Soriano, shouts. </p><p>Haywood says, “Mountaingem. This man --” He gestures at the subject of their extraction. “-- <em>cannot</em> be recaptured. His return to the U.S. is <em>vital</em>.” </p><p>Their pilot says, “I don’t have enough fuel to get to Camp -- wait. There’s a carrier offshore right now. I can… if we fly conservatively...”</p><p>“If anyone can get there, it’s you, Vapor,” the other helo’s pilot says. </p><p>“You’ll be dropping most of your weight.” Haywood says. He jerks a thumb at the asset. “Drop the rest of us. Him, your gunner, you, make it to the carrier.” He clicks onto his radio. "Mountaingem One, this is GIG-6. Can you provide air support for GIGO Alpha Team’s landing?”</p><p>“Roger that, GIG-6.” </p><p>Haywood nods decisively. Kindel hears Asche talking to the guy they rescued. Telling him the pilot will get him home. </p><p>“Mountaingem One, concentrate on keeping the area around that gate clear, while you drop your Raiders.” </p><p>“We can provide some fire, too, while I go by,” Vapor says. </p><p>“Good. Can you get in quick enough before those guys with the mortars target you?”</p><p>She nods. “Yes.”</p><p>“Do it. See if you can get me over that truck for the drop." Then, over the radio, "Alpha Team! Get ready to make a ruckus! Let’s go get some!” </p><p>The pilot flits in over the enemy’s trucks and they jump. Haywood’s half out the bird already; he lands straight on the top of one of the trucks, rifle already firing down into it, the rest of them dropping around him or on the ground, and the bird flitting away and lifting before they even land. Fuck that’s good flying.   </p><p>“COME ON YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” He hears Haywood shout, shooting through the roof of the truck. He pulls out a grenade and throws it in the direction of the heaviest fire, while Asche smashes his rifle through the glass of the driver windshield and drags someone out. “GET THAT TRUCK THROUGH THIS GATE, GUNNY!” Haywood shouts. </p><p>It’s a blur. It’s loud. It’s chaos. It’s graceless. None of the planned precision from their earlier extraction. No smooth scalpel. They land in the middle of a shitshow, and it just gets shittier. Kindel staggers back, pain in his chest, and realizes he’s been hit -- his body armor preventing penetration, but his body still rocked from the impact.  He shoots, and shoots, moving in formation with Cazacu, Edwards, Morales, and Song. Kindel concentrates on guys with rockets and big guns. Song concentrates on the other trucks. Edwards and Morales concentrate on the foot soldiers firing at them, running towards them. Asche drives the truck through the gates head-on. </p><p>A part of the side of the FOB building is smoking, crumbling brick from where someone was trying to force ingress through mortar shells. </p><p>Above them, Mountaingem One’s gunner sprays more machine gun fire behind them, giving them space to make their way towards the part of the FOB still standing.  Suddenly, the Little Bird above them starts shrieking, props smoking as the tail's hit and the bird spins. The pilot and gunner jump. </p><p>“COVER THOSE SOLDIERS!” Haywood shouts, and Kindel and Morales pivot to cover them, as the pilot and gunner stumble in the mud, running toward them through the gate, away from the smoking helo as it falls.</p><p>Five minutes of absolute screaming mayhem later they get through the doors. </p><p>There’s five dead FOB staff on the ground around it. Inside, there’s a wounded Warrant Officer, three more logistics staff, two radiomen, and the FOB’s CO, an Army Major reservist, who is unconscious, badly wounded, and being treated by the FOBs medic and GIGO’s corpsman as best they can. </p><p>"Goddamn, I am glad to see you and your marines, Captain." The warrant officer greets them. </p><p>“Air support ETA 15 minutes," one of the radiomen calls out.</p><p>"Great. So we get to play king of the hill for fifteen minutes. Where's your ammunition, Warrant Officer? Cazacu, stick with Edwards on those doors. Kemp, get me an accurate ammunition count. 2nd Lieutenant Willis,” he asks one of the logistics staff, “Where is GIGO Bravo Team?"</p><p>The lieutenant looks back at him. “Captain Haywood, Bravo Team was at the embassy.”</p><p>Captain Haywood turns to stare at the Warrant Officer. “Where is Bravo Team, Warrant Officer Hardy?” </p><p>“Captain, they were at the embassy when.” He clears his throat. “The capitol’s being attacked too. Bravo Team coordinated with the MSG attachment to evacuate embassy personnel, sir. They’re inbound to USN Doris Miller.”</p><p>“Casualties?”</p><p>“In Bravo Team, zero, Captain.” </p><p>Captain Haywood nods. The building shakes. “Song, find a way to get rid of those fucking rockets, they’re pissing me off.” </p><p>“Aye, Captain.” </p><p>Kindel gets one of the logistics guys, a shit-scared looking corporal to take him their ammunitions locker and hauls it all out to the middle of the room. </p><p>“Is that it?” Captain Haywood asks. </p><p>The Warrant Officer says, “This is an observation station, Captain, minimally staffed.”</p><p>‘It’s fine, Hardy. Morales, get me a sitrep on the building damage and where we need to be concentrating our zone defense.”</p><p>“Captain, incoming!” </p><p>Haywood looks at the screen. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, looks at them and says, “Right. Two people at each point of entry. Someone, you, corporal, you handle ammunition. Someone calls out, you bring it to them. When we’re out you call it out. We will hold this building until air support arrives.” </p><p> </p><p>It is the longest ten minutes of Kindel’s life. The building wall had failed under new mortar fire at the very end, right around the same time Kindel had realized he was out of ammo, the corporal was calling out to Morales that they were out of ammunition, and Song and Edwards were calling out their weapon status (low, but not empty), and then a grenade came sailing through the hole in the wall. </p><p>Gunny had picked the thing up and thrown it back out shouting “You irritating sons of bitches!” like a grenade was just one annoyance too many today. Haywood had looked at the corporal, as he told them they had no more bullets, and merely nodded, looked at their team and said, “Marines, fix bayonets.” </p><p>Kindel had felt a lump in his throat as he clicked his bayonet in place, and then he didn’t have time to be scared, because the wall was rushed. </p><p>And then they’d heard the Army pilots on the radio calling out to them, “FOB Minerva, this is Red Witch 6, artillery fire incoming.” 25 seconds later they’d heard the planes, screaming overhead, and the artillery fire coming down. </p><p>He’d never stabbed anyone before. It was different than shooting someone. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And now it was all over. They’d left FOB Minerva with a company of the 151st that had air-dropped in, and more reinforcements and support on the way. The Major had been medevaced.  Alpha had been picked up by helicopter, not one of the little birds but a Navy transport helo, and dropped off on the air carrier to reunite with Bravo Team. </p><p>Kindel was so tired he felt like his heart was just going to stop, but somehow they still had to sit through a debrief, and piece through every single decision everyone had made in the last 24 hours and then finally, finally, they were told to rest, and their flight back was in 3 hours. </p><p>Kindel is lying on the floor in one of the bays with the rest of the teams, head on his pack, trying to sleep. Some of the rest of the team are already asleep. Some talking quietly on their phones or between themselves. He’d gotten his gear that they’d left stowed on the boat and checked his phone, but he didn’t want to call anyone just yet. Maybe when their flight was close to landing. He’d just wanted to lie down. Captain Haywood had squeezed his shoulder when he walked by earlier, eyes searching his face, and asked how he was doing. Kindel had said okay, because he was, even if he feels like maybe at some point it will hit him, how fucking crazy today was. Captain Haywood had nodded and said, “Come talk, when you’re not, or to Asche or Morales, if you don’t want to talk to your CO.” </p><p>On the other side of Gunnery Sergeant Asche, Haywood’s mobile phone rings. Kindel hears him say, “Hey Teixeira,” voice quiet and slow. </p><p>Kindel closes his eyes. </p><p>Haywood says, “No, not much, just sitting around waiting for a flight, good timing. How’re you?”</p><p>He sounds bone-tired, like they all do. </p><p>“Yeah? How’d your report go? … That’s awesome. When I get there we’ll have to get dinner or something to celebrate. …  Oh, nothing much. Just a normal day at the office. Had a few fires to put out, but all’s well that ends well.”</p><p>Kindel opens his eyes and looks at where the Captain’s sitting up now, back against the wall, legs bent. He’s smiling and then he goes pink across the bridge of his nose. </p><p>He chuckles a little at something on the other end of the call. “The shit you say, Teixeira.” He stands up. “Hold on, let me go find someplace with a door that shuts and locks, Christ, the mouth on you.” </p><p>Kindel snorts. “Get Some, Captain!” Gunny manages to half call out towards the Captain’s receding back, through a yawn. </p><p>Kindel picks up his phone and thumbs through his Spotify playlists until he gets to his sleep mix. Put his earbuds in, and closes his eyes again. 2 hours 45 minutes  until their flight back. Next to him, Gunny pats his shoulder and says, “Get some sleep, sergeant.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Little Bird - a type of helicopter, small and maneuverable etc<br/>Mountaingem Two - the call sign for the helicopter Haywood and Kindel are in<br/>Mountaingem One - the other helicopter<br/>Vapor - the personal call sign for Captain Anand, Mountaingem Two’s pilot<br/>(For those of you that care, these helicopters/pilots are not Marines units, that's why Hayes says "cover those soldiers" instead of "cover those marines")</p><p>FOB - Forward Operating Base</p><p>GIGO is the company call-sign for Hayes’ team of MARSOC guys. It stands for Get In Get Out since they are, in the beginning, essentially just doing a very expensive, very researched, multi-agency smash and grab job like they’re robbing a 7-11. Hayes is GIG-6 because he is the company commander; Levi Asche is GIG-7 because he is the lead NCO. Carlson from Parthian Chicken is heading Bravo Team at the embassy, thus his absence in the chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Scott’s just come on shift. He’s standing guard in the West Corridor when a marine walks out a door in full dress blues, sword and all.  He must be who the ceremony is for today, him and that Gunnery Sergeant and the dog that saved the ambassador or whatever. He’s, well... he’s pretty much exactly Scott’s type. Clean-cut, tall. Scott was a marine himself before he wound up here and he can admire the aggressively perfect press of his uniform. And Scott sure doesn’t mind getting to watch him walk along the corridor checking messages on his phone, those long legs and that tight ass, so he’s maybe paying a little more attention that he normally would, when an older man steps out of a side door. </p>
<p>Nice suit. Red tie. Little flag on his lapel means he’s not one of Scott’s to worry about, some other team’s problem. Rick’s probably not far behind, giving the senator some space.  </p>
<p>“Lawrence,” the older man says, and the marine pauses, turns, salutes. </p>
<p>“Senator Haywood.”  Oh, <em>that</em> asshole. Poor Rick. </p>
<p>“Lawrence, it’s good to see you. Your mother and I were hoping you could join us for dinner tonight.” </p>
<p>“I appreciate the hospitality, Senator, but I have to decline.” </p>
<p>“Nonsense, my boy, we haven’t seen you in ages. Your flight’s not until tomorrow.” </p>
<p>“Thank you, but I can’t make it.” </p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous. This silly little ego trip of yours has gone on long enough. We’re your parents. You owe us dinner.” </p>
<p>Scott really has to admire it: the marine has the perfect game face:  stone cold, cover at the perfect angle that he has to tip his jaw up and look down his nose just to see the Senator.  They’re all the way down at the end of the hall, so Scott has to really strain his ears, but he hears the marine reply, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’d be here. You’ve done your family proud, boy. Remarkable achievements. Your mother and I are quite impressed.” </p>
<p>“No,” the marine says, “what’s remarkable is that I was afraid of you my whole childhood. You were like the boogeyman. Now, Senator, I realize, you don’t scare me at all.” He salutes, a crisp, sharp, regulation fuck-you, and then inclines his head in a good-bye. “Good afternoon, Senator. Good luck with your election, I hear you’ll need it.” </p>
<p>Scott has a perfect view as he walks towards him, back straight, posture perfect, the senator still at the end of the corridor, mouth open, face flushing in anger and embarrassment. It’s too big of a temptation, Scott is too fucking pumped for the guy. He wants to shout “HELL YEAH” but he also doesn’t want to get fired, so he limits himself to one, “fucking <em>get some</em>, sir.” when the captain walks by, under his breath, mouth barely moving. </p>
<p>The captain’s eyes flick to him, a hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth, but he keeps walking, the tiniest little nod of his head. Oh, Scott <em>cannot wait</em> to tell Rick about this over beers.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you're thinking "It actually takes quite a long time for medals to go through the approval process sometimes," my cover-story is that this one was pushed through faster than normal by the powers of whatever ambassador was saved by Bravo Team and Reckless while Asche and Hayes were busy at the FOB, and since it's always good PR to give animals medals, here they all are.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Captain Haywood says, “Life is a warfare, a brief sojourning in a foreign land, and after fame, oblivion.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There are four Marcus Aurelius quotes in this chapter which seems somewhat excessive but here we are.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lori congratulates him on his medal while he sets his cover neatly on the arm of the loveseat. After he sits, Captain Haywood says, “Life is a warfare, a brief sojourning in a foreign land, and after fame, oblivion.” </p><p>Lori returns his look and then points at the small decorative pillow at his elbow. He follows her eyes to it. It’s ornately embroidered. She did it herself, and she’s very proud of it. There are scrolls of flowers and birds and in the center lettering that reads:  NO MARCUS AURELIUS QUOTES.</p><p>He picks it up and laughs. “What’s wrong with Marcus Aurelius?”</p><p>“Nothing, unless you’re a therapist who treats a disproportionate number of white, male, military officers, in which case, I assure you, he can get tiresome.”</p><p>Haywood grins sheepishly and puts the pillow down. “I am assured of this.” He laces his fingers together, leaning forward. “I’m just tired of it. I guess. Getting medals is… feels like it sort of misses the point.”</p><p>“What's the point?”</p><p>“People always act like, you know, you do a thing, it must be because you’re brave, or you’re… patriotic, or noble, or something. It’s not really about that. Maybe it is for some people, but that’s not me. That’s never really a motivating thought in my mind. It’s not what… I didn’t even want to be in the military, you know?”</p><p>“I find that a little bit surprising. We’ve been meeting often enough for it to be apparent to me how seriously you take being a good officer. How deeply important it is to you. What did you want to do, instead? If you hadn’t gone into the military what would you have done?”</p><p>He leans back. “Fuck, I don’t know. Making bank on Wall Street at some hedge fund? Fucking my kinda-not-exactly-girlfriend on a beach somewhere in the South Pacific while living off my trust fund? Anywhere other than getting screamed at and PT’ed until I was puking in a sandpit?” He shrugs. “But it is what it is.”</p><p>Lori pauses for a second and then says. “You say that a lot. It is what it is. You have an acceptance about it. But that isn’t how you feel about it, is it? That’s not how you felt, at the moment.”</p><p>Haywood doesn’t answer. Just looks away, staring at the window.</p><p>“How did you feel, at Basic, as you said, puking in a sandpit?”</p><p>His fingers are tight on his kneecaps, a flush high on his cheeks. His eyes are red and glassy. “I was angry,” he says finally, voice tight and straining soft. “I was angry.”</p><p>“It's okay,” she says softly, “to say that you’re angry. To feel anger.”</p><p>“I was fucking angry,” he repeats. “And I was angry, sitting in those fucking officer classes, with all these fucking lying assholes, standing there, telling us all this garbage about honor and duty and respect like that’s…” He shakes his head. “It’s such <em>bullshit</em>. Everyone pats themselves on the back and says how important all that is how, how that’s the foundation of the military, the foundation of serving, the foundation of our oath. And it’s bullshit. It’s not like any fucking top brass believes that? You think they give a shit? You think they’re signing 18 year old kids to go kill other little kids so that we can have cheap bananas or oil or batteries for cell phones because they really believe everything <em>Marcus Aurelius</em> told them about duty and honor? It’s fucking bullshit and I hated every single one of them for everything they said, and I hated my father, for being the king of all that same bullshit.”</p><p>"It’s okay to throw the Marcus Aurelius pillow across the room, if you need to.” </p><p>The muscle on the side of his jaw ticks, but he smiles a little and shakes his head no. “Obviously you spent a lot of time on it, ma’am.”</p><p>“That’s very considerate of you.”</p><p>“I’m not considerate. I’m not… I’m not some good guy. You know what an asshole I was in high school? There are probably people I went to high-school with, that if I was on fire they wouldn’t piss on me to put it out. You think I was some kind of sweet kid when I was in college? I was a dick, most of the time, and the only time I wasn’t, it was just because Bells would have given me shit about it.”</p><p>“And yet here you are, too considerate to throw a hand-embroidered pillow. Two bronze stars with Vs, a purple heart. A company of marines that are unswervingly devoted to you because of your devotion to them. A wife that loves you as fiercely as you love her. Trying your best to be a good husband, to learn positive habits for a marriage you want to succeed, positive habits before you allow yourself to become a parent so that you break a pattern you recognize as toxic and abusive. Here you are, Captain Haywood, trying, and succeeding, at being a good man.” </p><p>He takes a deep breath. And says. “Permission for another Marcus Aurelius quote, Major? It’s pertinent.” </p><p>She laughs. “Permission granted, Captain.” </p><p>“When I was at Basic, one night, I was lying in my bunk, reading Marcus Aurelius, because it was <em>assigned reading</em>. I get to Book 6, Chapter 6. ‘Ἄριστος τρόπος τοῦ ἀμύνεσθαι τὸ μὴ ἐξομοιοῦσθαι. The best revenge is not to be like your enemy.’”</p><p>“Ah. I see now.”</p><p>“And that’s when I decided. All the bullshit they were telling me, I was going to do it. I was going to be the best goddamn officer the Marine Corps had ever seen. Out of spite. Just so that they’d have to see it, you know, in their face. To rub their nose in it -- Here’s all the bullshit everyone talks about but never does. Now here it is live, but they’re not living it.” He pauses, swallows. “And also, you know, the satisfaction of knowing I was nothing like them.”</p><p>“Like your father.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“You know it still counts, right? Whatever your motivation. Trying to be a good person, it doesn't matter what your motivation is, as long as you’re doing it.” </p><p>“Well, that’s the thing, though, right?” He leans back. “Caring about things fucking sucks. I don’t know how Bells stands it. And once you start … It’s hard to turn off. And then, you know, you start caring about shit, you start trying to take care of your people, but of course it’s irreconcilable. For all the bullshit they spout, if anyone actually calls them on the bluff and tries to live like that… At some point, being a good man is incompatible with working in a system being run by people using it for their own self-interests. But if you leave, you just leave your position to be staffed by more assholes. One less person that’s actually fucking trying. But if you stay--” He shrugs. “The hut smokes; I move out.” </p><p>“I’m going to break my own rule.”</p><p>He laughs. “Oh no.”</p><p>“Here it is, I have a quote for you too -- ‘What is the very best that can be said or done with the materials at your disposal? Be it what it may, you have the power to say it or do it; let there be no pretense that you are not a free agent.’ Maybe it is enough to do what you can, where you are, as best you can, Captain Haywood.”</p><p>“That’s a pretty long quote off the top of your head for someone with a No Marcus Aurelius pillow.”</p><p>“It’s a love-hate relationship.” She sits back. “You aren’t the only one that went through the Basic.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>To my knowledge Meditations is not required reading at USMC BOC (i.e. The Basic School) but there is a lot of talk about being a person of "exemplary character", honor, duty, ethical warrior ethos etc.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On the plane ride to Algiers, Camilla’s brother had said, “It’s nice that you’re coming, you know, but I don’t need a keeper. I’m a big boy now, Millie, I can go on a plane by myself.”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Camilla’s not in Algiers because there’s escalating tension and civil unrest (there is). She’s not going to Algiers to cover the first stirrings of revolution (although there are plenty). </p><p>Camilla’s here because her idiot little brother listened to an LP of some kind of Tuareg folk indie grunge metal desert blues artist--</p><p><em>It’s not just the blues, Millie,</em> he’d insisted, <em>this is entirely new</em>. It’s indescribable. Transcendent! The tonal shifts! The asymmetrical rhymes! The perfection of the simplicity! It’s the best album I’ve heard in years, Millie. I listened to it 25 times in one day, you know what I did Saturday, I lay on the floor and listened to this album for 4 hours straight!</p><p>--and found out that his new favorite band, Tihalaten, was playing at a desert blues festival in Tamanrasset in southern Algeria and decided he was going to see them perform live. </p><p>Camilla’s little brother, bless him, once got lost in a village in Wales that only has three streets. She is not letting him go to the Sahara by himself.</p><p> </p><p>On the plane ride to Algiers, Camilla’s brother had said, “It’s nice that you’re coming, you know, but I don’t need a keeper. I’m a big boy now, Millie, I can go on a plane by myself.”</p><p>Camilla had taken one ear bud out and looked away from her laptop to say, “You have absolutely no idea how to exist outside of London.”</p><p>“I’ve been to places. I went to Glasgow once.”</p><p>“Last weekend you wept at me on the phone because your favorite cafe was all out of chocolate croissants and you had to get an almond one.” </p><p>He sighs forlornly and leans his head against the airplane window. “You don’t know how good they are. If you did, you would understand.” </p><p>Camilla puts her earbuds back in. </p><p> </p><p>They’ve been here less than 24 hours, and he has already ran into traffic to cross a street to pet a cat, been talked into buy any number of knicknacks at inflated “I spot a tourist who’s terrible at haggling” prices at the bazaar, flirted with their cab driver, and gotten a sunburn despite her reminders to put on sunscreen. </p><p>He knocks on her hotel room door while she’s finishing braiding her hair--with coffee. “Try these cookies, have you had these cookies before? Try them! Oh, also, I found a plane to take us to Tamanrasset.” </p><p>Camilla tries a cookie, and takes her coffee cup. They’re both delicious. The cookies are made with almonds. “Found it where? I’ve already got a name of a pilot.”</p><p>“No, no. I found a man who says he’s got a plane and will take us.”</p><p>Camilla takes a steadying breath and says, “You can’t just accept random flights from strange men.”</p><p>He eats another cookie and waves his hand. “He was carrying a vintage ‘68 princeton custom reverb. Obviously he is a man of taste and character. I’m sure he’s very good at airplanes too.”</p><p>Camilla stares at him. </p><p>“A classic vintage tube amp,” he explains further, in the face of her silence, and then when she keeps staring at him, “an amplifier, Millie, is a device used to amplify sound, in this specific case, it’s designed to amplify sound from an electric guitar.”</p><p>Camilla sighs. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The plane is parked in a field outside of the city. A tall dark-skinned man in chinos and a linen shirt is talking on his mobile in a light west-country accent. Another man is loading some sort of black case into the old Cessna. He’s wearing a baseball cap, the sort of slate-colored hiking trousers made with rip-stop and too many pockets, and a t-shirt that says WELCOME TO DOLLYWOOD. </p><p>He is also, to Camilla’s <em>complete surprise</em>, Captain Lawrence Haywood.</p><p>“Charlie!" He waves and then seeing her, his face splits into a grin. “Ms. Barr. Salaam.”</p><p> “Leonard Travers. You do turn up in the most interesting places.” </p><p>He laughs. “Just Haywood here, ma’am. I’m on vacation, though I appreciate the consideration. And I can say the same for you. Have you gone into music journalism now?" He slaps her brother on the shoulder in greeting. "Charlie tells me he writes for an indie music blog.”</p><p>“Actually, Charlie’s my little brother.”</p><p>Haywood looks between the two of them. “Camilla and Ch--”</p><p>“Yes, I know,” she sighs. </p><p>“Your parents big fans of the royals?”</p><p>“Actually, the exact opposite.” </p><p>“They had a peculiar sort of humor,” Charlie explains. “How do you know my sister?”</p><p>Camilla is just opening her mouth to figure out how to respond to that when another man comes behind them, dropping a duffel bag at Hayes’s feet. "He sort of kidnapped her. A little. Temporarily," the man says, then turns around and winks at them, before saying,  "Good to see you again, Camilla Barr."</p><p>"Hello, Front Passenger Seat."</p><p>He grins, big and happy. "That's me. You can call me Levi, though.” </p><p>"You got kidnapped?" Charlie glares at her. "I've never been kidnapped. How come you always get to do things?"</p><p>Levi pats his shoulder. "We can work something out if you want. I've always got zipties."</p><p>Well, that seals it: Haywood can say he’s here on vacation all he wants, there’s no way he’s in Algeria with his NCO because they just wanted to get away for a weekend and see a concert.</p><p>The third man ends his phone call and walks up to them. </p><p>“Ms. Barr,” Haywood says, “this is Liam, he’ll be our pilot today.  </p><p>Liam shakes her hand warmly, but she couldn’t tell you what it is about him, there’s no specific thing, maybe just his bearing, something behind his eyes, but after years and years of building her intuition, she is absolutely certain he’s MI6. </p><p>“Nice to meet you, Liam. Camilla Barr.”</p><p>“Good to meet you too. Got your luggage? We’ll get everything stowed.”</p><p>Haywood grins at her again. “We’re Oscar Mike in fifteen, let’s get your bags loaded.” </p><p> </p><p>In the backseat of the old twin-turboprop--while they’re waiting on the runway because Charlie remembered he needed to use the toilet one last time before the several hour flight--Camilla says, “So, let me make sure I understand correctly. You’re on vacation, here, for the blues festival.” </p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>“And so you requested leave, for at least a week, and your command said, oh, are you leaving the country? And you said, Yes, I’m going to the Saharan desert, And they said, Sure, okay, and signed for your leave--and then you said, And, oh, by the way, I’m taking my gunnery sergeant, and they said, sure whatever you like, and signed his leave too?”</p><p>Levi snorts.</p><p>“And then,” she continues, “you two, and Liam here from Vauxhall--”</p><p>“Actually Liam’s my brother-in-law,” Haywood interupts her. “He’s a veterinarian.’ </p><p>“Liam,” Camilla says firmly, “works at MI6.”</p><p>Liam throws his head back and laughs and says, “This fucking family.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know the name of his clinic,” Haywood says calmly, “but he’s in a civil partnership with my wife’s oldest brother, so that makes him my brother-in-law.”</p><p>“Met at a bbq,” Liam agrees. </p><p>“Right. So Liam the Veterinarian and you two just flew into Algiers together and when they were checking your passports in customs, no one said oh look this man is an officer in the United States military, a country with a number of sanctions and travel bans with us, and <em>let you in</em>?”</p><p>“Oh, no.” Haywood says, clearly amused, “we didn’t fly in through Aligers, we came in the usual way.”</p><p>“The usual way.”</p><p>He just winks at her, the irritating man. </p><p>Charlie climbs into the Cessna. “Okay, I’m ready then,” he says, “what did I miss?”</p><p>“Liam’s partner is Sasha Volkov,” Camilla says with a sigh. </p><p>“Oh! Do you know Leonie then?”</p><p>Liam looks back at them. Camilla can see herself in the reflection of his aviators. “I do, we got lunch with his sisters just last week. I see them all the time.”</p><p>“We were in school together. She was always just absolutely hilarious,” Charlie says, “and we’re always running into each other at the same shows now.”</p><p>“You’ll have to get lunch with us sometime then.”</p><p>“Have you been to that place with the soup? You know the soup… thing?”</p><p>“Not yet.”</p><p>“Oh, you’ve got to, mate. That’s the place. Next time you’re back in London.”</p><p>Levi looks out the window next to him and says, “Congratulations, sir, this is the surrealist flight I’ve ever been on and we haven’t even taken off yet.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When they land, they’re greeted by a man in black jeans, a leather jacket, and a loosely wound tagelmust, who grabs Haywood into a fierce hug as soon as his feet touch the ground. Camilla watches the men embrace, rocking back and forth as they hug, foreheads touching. </p><p>“Getting a little jealous here, Haywood,” Levi jokes as he unloads their bags.</p><p>“The UCMJ says I’m not allowed to lovingly embrace you, Asche. Hit me up once Aurora’s made an honest man out of you.” Haywood pulls himself away from his friend to start making introductions. </p><p>“If you’re looking for someone to passionately clutch with your fingers sunk into their hair, I’m currently at my leisure.” </p><p>Levi laughs. “You’re a <em>flirt</em>. I like it.”</p><p>“You’re not at your leisure, you’re about to help me set up tents,” Camilla says.</p><p>“Oh, no, that’s all your sort of thing, Millie, You know all about tents. I’m sure you’re very good at it.”</p><p>There’s a hardy round of greetings between everyone else. They set up their tents among all the others in the desert outside of the little town. The stage for the start of festivities tomorrow is empty in the middle of the town square. Levi makes a fire. Camilla watches Haywood sit next to Saïd and make tea. Charlie is deep in conversation about alternative tunings and guitar pedals with Tihalaten’s other guitarist, Hamada. </p><p>After they’ve eaten their evening meal,  Haywood pulls the black case she’d seen earlier out of the plane’s storage. “I hope that’s a guitar, and I’m not about to watch the US’s traveling salesman pitch for rifles,” she half jokes. And, yes, she’d followed him. She’s a journalist. It’s not being nosy, it’s being thorough. </p><p>Haywood says, “Ms. Barr, I am a United States marine, not an off-the-books agent in the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency. I don’t sell guns, it's against ITAR regulations.” He nods at the case. “Open it up.”</p><p>So she does, and stares at the thing, nestled in the carbon gray velour. </p><p>“It’s---”</p><p>“It’s a Gretsch.” he finishes for her, eyes laughing at her. “Semi-hollow body, mahogany neck, ebony fretboard. Custom wound Seymour Duncan split coil humbucker pickups.” </p><p>“It’s a guitar.”</p><p>“Yes. I believe people use them to play music, ma’am.” </p><p>Camilla stares at it, at the guitar’s gleaming beauty, the abalone inlay in the fret. “It’s lovely. What's it…”</p><p>He shuts the lid. “Emily Post says it’s polite to bring a gift if you’re visiting the man who put his entire family’s lives at risk to save your own. And it’s hard to find a Gretsch in North Africa; market trends more towards Fenders for whatever reason.” </p><p>They walk back to their camp, and Haywood hands the guitar case to Saïd, and takes a cup of tea in exchange. </p><p>“What is this?” Saïd asks.</p><p>“Open it, brother.” </p><p>Saïd flipps open the clasps and lifts the lid. Nestled in the lining the guitar is black and shining. He takes it out, fingers reverent. “What a beauty! What shall I call her?” he asks, clasping Haywood’s hand. “Thank you,” he says, and Haywood squeezes his shoulder. "Here, where's the patch cord, let us see how she sounds."</p><p>"What are the Duncans?" Charlie asks. </p><p>"'59s," Haywood informs him. </p><p>"A classic." </p><p>With one guitar out, the others follow. Amps are unpacked, and connected to generators and solar batteries, and music begins to fill the air. </p><p>Camilla drinks tea, and listens, and tries not to fret. When a steel-string acoustic is passed to a laughing Levi who blushes and finally accepts, he strums idly for a few moments, finding his way back to remembering the chords, then starts singing, first just a humming of a few notes along with the percussion of the guitar strings, then sings, <em>You and I both know that the house is haunted. You and I both know that the ghost is me</em>. </p><p>Camilla turns to Haywood and says, “I hope you know my brother is filming this little fire-side sing-along.”  </p><p>Haywood, leaning back on his elbows contentedly, eyes fondly watching Levi, says, “I’m not working, Ms. Barr, he can film what he likes.” He pauses and then follows that up with, “Well, he’ll probably want to keep Liam out of it, but I think Liam knows how to keep himself off of film well enough. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“Right, because you’re on <em>vacation</em>.” She huffs in frustration.  “Look, I know it’s none of my business why you’re here.”</p><p>That makes him raise his eyebrows. “Ms. Barr. You’re a war correspondent. Pretty sure not only is it your business, but it’s your job. It’s just my job not to tell you.” </p><p>“All right, well, yes, exactly, but also, I’m not here for… What I’m trying to say, Captain--”</p><p>“Hayes is fine.”</p><p>“What I’m trying to say, Hayes, is that I’m here because of my brother. And if you’re here... My brother is not... He’s… sweet. But he can find trouble anywhere.” She tries again. “It’s just us, you know. Our parents have passed.”</p><p>“And you’re his big sister, always watching out for him.”</p><p>“Yes. So I’m just… If there’s a reason that you think things might come to a head, here, in the next week, I need you to tell me now, Hayes, so that I can get my brother out of here.”</p><p>Hayes sips his tea contemplatively and finally says, “I’m here on leave to see Saïd, my friend.”</p><p>“Of all the bullshit--” she growls. </p><p>“I’m serious, Camilla. I am. I’m not saying it’s not… a working vacation... in a way, but I am, officially, on a leave chit, and I am here to visit someone who is, actually and truly, a very good friend of mine. Nothing about that is untruthful. And to answer your other question...” He sets his tea glass down. “No one, even Liam, is here to make trouble, and I’m not anticipating any.” He shrugs a little. “I mean, you never know. Things can turn quickly, and it’s hard to predict, but you knew that before you came here. We’re not … None of us are here to light a match.”  </p><p>Levi’s song reaches its denouement, the final chorus played at an exuberant grand forte. Hayes leans forward and shouts along with him on the chorus, <em>And you and I both know that the ghost is you. Used to walk around screaming, all slammin’ all them doors. Well I’m all grown up, I don’t scare easy no more!</em></p><p>There’s a round of good-natured shouts after he’s done, and Levi passes the guitar back to Saïd who, laughing himself, passes it to Hayes.</p><p>“Oh no.” Hayes hands it back to him. “I think I remember a chord or two, but I’m no guitar player.”</p><p>Saïd regards him for a second then settles the guitar back in his own arms, and says, “Fine, I will play a song for you, but you’ll have to sing. You cannot tell me you can’t sing, my friend, I know your voice.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Hayes says, “What song are you going to pick?”</p><p>Saïd cocks his head to one side, staring at Hayes and finally starts plucking a few notes. “You know it?” he asks. Tihalaten's drummer starts playing along with him. </p><p><em>“Well, won’t you lend your lungs to me, mine are collapsing,”</em> Hayes sings in answer.</p><p>It’s a beautiful song, an old song, as old as some of the old Tinariwen songs they’d played earlier, and it sounds somehow exactly like itself, and yet completely different, out here under the stars, played in a different key.</p><p> </p><p>When the song ends, Saïd plays another, this one one she recognizes from Tihalaten’s album. Charlie had certainly played it enough on their trip out here for her to recognize it. Hayes sings along with that too. She understands Charlie’s love for it, there is something aching in the dissonance and harmony. Something rough in the sweetness of it. </p><p>When the third of their songs turns slow, Camilla asks, “What is he singing?” </p><p>Hayes says, “He’s singing about loneliness. His soul in the mountains. Sorry, it’s tough to translate, and I’m not skilled enough in the language to do it well.” </p><p>“The Tuareg,” she says, as Saïd sings, “have a hard time of it. They’re always outside, culturally apart from the rest of the countries they live in. It makes them vulnerable.”</p><p>Hayes hums in agreement and pours her some more tea. </p><p>“They don’t have any love lost for Algeria’s current political leadership.”</p><p>“For good reason,” Hayes says. </p><p>“No argument there.” She sighs. “It might be tempting for them to have the US at their backs, but, Hayes, the US are not gentle with their little allies. It will be them that suffers, and the US that walks away with what they wanted all along.”</p><p>Hayes closes his eyes. “And what happens if they have no allies at all?” He opens his eyes with a sigh. “They have themselves, of course. That’s not nothing.” </p><p>Saïd passes his guitar to Charlie. Charlie takes it in hand, strums a chord and says, “So, anyway, here’s Wonderwall.” Hamada laughs and boos good naturedly. Charlie starts playing a Rolling Stones song, and Saïd sits back, turns and shifts his attention to them.</p><p>“Tonight is not time for this talk,” Saïd says, “Tonight is for music in the dark and friends around a fire.”</p><p>“Cheers to that,” Hayes says, raising his glass of tea.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Marines don’t whine. Levi doesn’t whine. No one goes SF because they expect to be comfortable. In fact, Levi would say that if you’re comfortable, you’re probably doing it wrong.</p><p>But if he were the sort of person that whined, he would say that this sucks.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marines don’t whine. Levi doesn’t whine. No one goes SF because they expect to be comfortable. In fact, Levi would say that if you’re comfortable, you’re probably doing it wrong. </p><p>But if he were the sort of person that whined, he would say that this sucks.</p><p>They’ve been here five months. And it still fucking sucks. It’s wet. Just constantly fucking damp. Levi is an Idaho boy, born and raised, and all this fucking humidity is hell.  He’d take the north African desert to this place, any day.  Also, they are not an FID team. They never have been, and Levi never wanted to fuck with any of that. GIGO is a direct action, special recon company; they don’t stay around and fuck with actual battles and they definitely don’t fuck with siege warfare, which is pretty much what this bullshit has turned into.  And FID has always felt... just... Something about it has always rubbed him the wrong way. He gets it. If you’re aiding an ally, there’s lots of reasons why maybe that ally country doesn’t want your military on their ground, or why international bodies that care about such things would think the US deploying battalions somewhere would be stepping over some line. </p><p>They’re here to offer aid in the form of weapons, supplies, intelligence, and a MARSOC special forces team in an <em>advisory role</em>. He gets it. But there’s just something so fucked up about it if you take a step back and think about it too much, like, “Hello, friend, I see you and your neighbors are trying to murder each other, would you like help and advice in doing that more efficiently? We’ve pretty much got it down to a science, so we’re happy to pass along some of our quick tips and tricks!”</p><p>At least their DA missions are honest. Smash your way in, get the thing, smash your way out. Sneak or smash your way in, destroy the thing (supply depot, communications station, bridge), sneak/smash your way out. Maximum effort. Maximum results.  None of this 'oh no no, we couldn’t possibly, this is your war, we’re just here for <em>aid</em>' backseat driving bullshit.</p><p>Of course, it’s <em>all</em> bullshit though. They’re not really just there in an advisory capacity. Oh, sure, Levi’s teaching classes every day, training up the host nation’s ranger tracking battalion, communicating with other countries that are aiding in the intelligence coordination. Haywood’s holed up in meetings with logistics and communications and host nation brass all day long.</p><p>But, at night, they’re doing what they do best, which is why they’re here and not some other team that specializes in teaching. They’ve been getting three or four hours of  sleep a night for the past five months. Wake up, PT, teach classes, coordinate with the HN, meetings, bullshit, teach more bullshit, chow, nap for an hour or two, gear up, go do ninja shit in the night, blow up a bridge or sabotage a satellite tower, or surprise attack a convoy, or raid a building, get back at dawn, debrief, nap for an hour, PT, teach classes, try not to fall asleep in meetings, chow…. </p><p>He’s fucking tired. JCrew’s tired too. </p><p>Levi can see it in his eyes, as he’s standing there, jaw tight, trying not to tell the HN's Commander to go fuck himself. </p><p>You’d think, with all the tech, this would be on a tablet or something, but they’ve got a map pinned to a table, just like the good ol’ days. Levi watches the Brass move the little figures around on it. Tomorrow’s the day they make their big push through the city walls. </p><p>“If you do that,” JCrew says, “whatever unit you send up here,” he taps the sector in question, “is going to suffer heavy casualties.” </p><p>The host commander shrugs.</p><p>“Oh.” Hayes rocks back on his heels. “Oh, I get it. It’s not your guys. Your recent additions, I take it, Colonel? And if they all die in the death funnel you’ve made, not only do they take the heat off your own soldiers, but then you don’t even have to bother with fulfilling any of the promises you made in exchange for their aid. They’re not trained warriors, you know, they’re just going to fucking die. It’ll be outright slaughter.”</p><p>“Captain Haywood,” Major Esch interrupts. </p><p>Haywood exhales through his nose. Mouth tight. “Apologies, Colonel.”</p><p>Their host nation’s commander waves a dismissive hand. “You feel strongly about it. It speaks well to your passion for your own men. But this is war. Sacrifices must be made. But since you have such a good rapport with them, you will coordinate our plans with them. I trust you’ll have them in position tomorrow morning.”</p><p>Yeah. Like Levi’s been saying. This whole fucking thing sucks. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>An hour later, Levi’s minding his own business, but a trip to use the head takes him past a mostly open door, and he can hear Haywood saying, “This is fucking murder, Esch. You get that right?”</p><p>“It’s not our war, Haywood. We’re here to offer aid, not to make command decisions for them.”</p><p>“That is such fucking bullshit. It’s low key ethnic cleansing. These are volunteers, and they’re only here because they’ll be worse off under a new regime than with the current government. It’s not like anyone in this country gives a shit about them, and now this governement just realized they can kill two birds with one shitty fucking plan.”</p><p>“Are you done?”</p><p>There’s a long, angry silence, then: “Yes, Major.”</p><p>“Are you refusing a direct command?”</p><p>“I am not, Major.”</p><p>“Then go get it done, Captain.”</p><p>“Sir, they’re not idiots. As soon as they see the map they’re going to realize they’re fucked.”</p><p>“You’re persuasive. Do what you need to do to make it happen, Captain.”</p><p>“Sir.”</p><p>Haywood stalks out of the room, mad as a hornet. He sees Levi in the hall, and Levi falls in step next to him.</p><p>“Gunnery Sergeant, would you like to accompany me on some bullshit?”</p><p>“Of course, sir, I love bullshit, that’s why I joined the Marines.” </p><p>That gets a smile out of him. “Well, you’re getting a whole heaping shovel-full of it today. Get Morales, and a truck.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” Levi says as they get in the truck. “That’s exactly where they’re going to call air support in.”</p><p>Morales starts the engine and Haywood says, “Yeah, all neat and tidy, they won’t even have to worry about friendly fire damage if the pilots miss.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It goes like this:  they sit down and take the glasses that are handed to them to drink,  and Haywood talks and unfolds a map and the poor fucking bastards that are about to be canon fodder look at it, and their leader nods and says, “We will be there,” he looks up with a smile, “provided of course they will hazard some of their own there too.”</p><p>And Haywood says, “They won’t.”</p><p>And the leader shrugs and says, “Then we will not either.” </p><p>Levi watches the muscle in Haywood’s jaw tick, a few beats of silence, then Haywood says, “But we’ll be there.”</p><p>Oh, fuck.</p><p>Haywood nods. “Echo Company will be there with you.”</p><p>They shake on it. </p><p>Levi curses under his breath.  Haywood starts drawing shit out on the map, coming up with how he’s going to keep them alive.  </p><p>Like he said. It sucks. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Back at the command center Major Esch says, “You what?? We are not authorized to be in combat here.”</p><p>“We’ll go in sanitized gear, cover our faces, keep a low profile, they can deny our presence later, it’ll be fine.” Haywood, the absolutely fucking shit that he is, smiles, all teeth and no joy, and says, “You said do what I had to do to make it happen, sir. That’s the deal I was able to make.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the pre-dawn hours, Haywood and Levi hand out civilian clothes and light weight balaclavas to their marines. They peel any signifying badges or identifying information off their body armor, ditch their boots for their running shoes and head to the friendlies’ encampment. They hand out body armor to their allies. No idea how Haywood managed to get his hands on any spare gear for these guys, last night, but he’s always been a resourceful, silver-tongued bastard when he wanted to be. </p><p>Levi makes coffee before dawn. It’s tradition. He grinds the beans in the small hand-grinder that he’s carried on every single deployment since he made E-5, boils water over a fire, and pours the little cups of coffee for their whole company, black and sweet. They’ve ditched most of their comms, all the fancy satellite coordination stuff, their helmet cams, anything that screams “expensively outfitted professional military”. Haywood’s grim-faced and battle ready with his armored vest over a long-sleeved t-shirt with a faded Nike logo on the sleeves, and a bandolier of full rifle mags over one shoulder, a belt full of grenades over the other, talking slowly and firmly to the gathered friendlies, going over their strategy. </p><p>“If I die in a 20 year old knock-off Boba Fett sweatshirt, I will haunt you all for all eternity,” Morales says to the rest of their team as he pulls on his balaclava. </p><p>“Absolutely no one is authorized to die today,” Haywood snaps. “Come on, Raiders, let's go get some.” </p><p> </p><p>It goes like this: they roll up to the siege of an occupied city in the back of old toyota pickup trucks with a bunch of scared shitless teenage boys, farmers, and grim faced guys who remember doing this all before ten years ago in the revolts. Those are the guys they’re counting on to hold the rest together and stick close with them to the plan. There’s no up-armored Humvees. No tanks. No fast little helicopters. </p><p>Levi has been in the business of war for going on 15 years now. He’s seen some shit. But nothing quite like the next brutal few hours. </p><p>They push through city streets. It’s chaos, but Haywood keeps calling out, keeping them on task. They’re here to make as much distraction as they can, divert enough enemy forces to them so that the main force actually makes headway, to block an avenue for the main force to be flanked. It’s funny, battle--sometimes it's hard to remember clearly, or even to notice clearly as a whole. It’s flashes: someone is in front of you, and then they’re dead. The streets are red and full. They must be doing well, because they’re still pushing forward.  The city is loud, smoke spiraling in the air from other quarters. </p><p>Edwards is the only one with a radio. Old school style. They pause in a momentary lull, hunkered in an alley. </p><p>“GIGO company this is SIERRA LIMA COMMAND DO YOU COPY OVER.”</p><p>“SIERRA LIMA THIS IS GIGO-2-ROMEO WE COPY OVER,” Edwards answers.</p><p>“GIGO COMPANY FALL BACK FOR AIR SUPPORT REPEAT FALL BACK FOR AIR SUPPORT.”</p><p>Levi’s stomach drops. Edwards stares at Haywood, frozen and indignant. Oh, those fucking shitheads. He sees Hayes' heartbreak in his eyes. He looks away, it hurts too much to look at. And then, to his surprise, he hears the pop of Haywood’s suppressed pistol. He looks back. The radio box has a hole in it. Edwards blinks in stunned surprise.</p><p>Haywood holsters his pistol. “Sergeant Edwards, something appears to be malfunctioning with the radio. I didn’t catch that last dispatch.” </p><p>“Yes, sir,” Edwards says with a grin, “I didn’t catch it either. Weird.” </p><p>“Great.” Haywood reloads his rifle. “Come on, marines, time to get this show over with.” </p><p>"They are calling in the drones?” the other leader asks when they meet him in the intersection. There’s blood at his neck, but Levi can’t tell if it’s his or someone else’s.</p><p>Haywood snorts. “Not while we’re here, we’re too fucking expensive. Marines, forward!” </p><p> </p><p>They funnel out from the side streets of the city, finally, into the main square. It’s already overrun with battle, thick with smoke and fire, and their entry has the enemy flanked. Levi has five minutes of the elation of battle, victory on his lips, until he sees that one of their marines is separated, cut off with a handful of friendlies.  Morales falls to the ground and one of those scared shitless eighteen year old kids that had been on the truck with them is crying, trying to drag a two hundred-pound marine out of fire one handed while maintaining cover fire with the other. </p><p>He doesn't think, he just runs. He can hear bullets around him, but he keeps firing as he’s running, clearing his way. He sees the flash of something metal, a machete, maybe, but keeps running.  There’s so much blood, and the kid keeps crying, but he gets to Morales. One of his arms isn’t working well, but the boy’s providing cover fire for both of them.  He rolls Morales up on his back--he only needs the one hand to hold him in place.</p><p>“Kid, behind me, cover to the left! You, and you, cover on my right, let’s go!” Together they make it behind a fountain wall. He tries to breathe for their next sprint. He rolls Morales back onto his shoulders, and looks at the kid. “When I say, go, go, okay?”</p><p>He says go, and they run. Something sharp in his chest. He’s falling. Across the square, he sees Haywood. He thinks, <em>Oh no, JCrew, don’t look at me like that,</em> because he knows that stupid motherfucker’s going to take it personally that Levi’s going to die. He doesn’t want Haywood to regret it the way they got here. </p><p>Then he sees Haywood running toward him and he thinks, <em>Oh, never mind, we’ll both be dead. Well, that solves that problem.</em> </p><p>He’s so tired. He can’t keep his eyes open. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Levi wakes up. His mouth is dry. His head hurts. His...everything hurts. Someone that sounds like a news anchor is droning on in a language he can't follow. He tries to blink. His eyes are dry. Crusty. </p><p>Someone says, “Levi? Levi!” A cool hand, soft on his arm. He turns his head. Oh. Aurora. “Oh god, Levi,” she says and she’s all teary eyed. He wants to kiss her. Levi goes back to sleep. </p><p>When Levi wakes up again, he’s more clear headed. He hurts. His arm hurts, which is weird, because his arm is also… not there. Huh. He blinks at the place where his arm should be. Someone shifts in a chair.</p><p>“Hey, asshole,” he hears a familiar voice. He turns his head. Captain Haywood’s sitting next to him. He blinks. </p><p>“Are you dead?” he croaks. </p><p>“No, but you almost were.” Haywood puts an ice chip in Levi’s ’s mouth. It dissolves, sweet and cold. He swallows. He realizes Haywood is not in uniform. He’s in sweatpants. Worn gray ones that say USMC, and a thin cotton gown overtop of it, a blanket wrapped around his shoulder like a shawl. There’s a plastic bracelet on his wrist. It’s dark outside.</p><p> Haywood says, “Aurora was here, left to go get something to eat with Bells.”</p><p>“Morales?”</p><p>“Concussed. Fractured fibula. Six to eight weeks, then he's off LIMDU. Says he's staying in. No other Echo company casualties. Lost a few of our other friends but not as many as I'd worried we would. Host nation lost 479 soldiers but took the city back. All the rest of our guys are back stateside.” </p><p>“Huh.” He closes his eyes. “My arm?”</p><p>“Machete. Then you got shot. It was a bad combination.”</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>Haywood squeezes the fingers of his right hand. His <em>only</em> hand. “Don’t worry, you’ve still got the one you jerk off with.”</p><p>“Fuck you, sir,” he laughs.  He nods at Haywood’s own hospital bracelet. “You?”</p><p>Haywood grimaces. “Promoted.” He stands up. “Shift over.” Levi wiggles over. Haywood lies down next to him, smushed up against the rails.</p><p>“Scandalous.” Levi laughs, sleepy. </p><p>“They can go fuck themselves if they have an opinion about it,” Haywood mutters. </p><p>“Sorry about your promotion, sir.” </p><p>“Promoted out of the field.” Haywood’s voice is bitter. “I wouldn’t gloat too much though, I already put your paperwork through, Master Sergeant.”</p><p>“Ahh, fuck,” Levi laughs. “You really are an asshole.”</p><p>“Had to get it down before my separation goes through. Resigning my commission.” </p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“Like I said, they can go fuck themselves.” Haywood closes his eyes. Levi can feel the length of his torso, warm and alive, their arms touching.  It feels nice, because otherwise the room feels chilly. </p><p>"Cold," he says, by way of explanation for why he leans against him.</p><p>"Yeah, that's from all the blood you lost." Haywood’s voice is dry. "You know, if you wanted me to have to salute you so bad,  you could have just gone mustang. Running into fire with your arm hanging by a thread to save your staff sergeant's not enough to get a medal of honor. Like... silver star, at most."</p><p>"Fuck you, sir." Levi laughs and goes back to sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Haywood blinks awake. Matilde watches his eye struggle to focus as she sits on the uncomfortable hospital chair. He seems surprised to see her.</p>
<p>“General Richmond?” he croaks, voice scratchy. One of the machines he’s connected to beeps.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Haywood blinks awake. Matilde watches his eyes struggle to focus as she sits on the uncomfortable hospital chair. He seems surprised to see her.</p>
<p>“General Richmond?” he croaks, voice scratchy. One of the machines he’s connected to beeps. </p>
<p>“Haywood.”</p>
<p>He blinks groggily.</p>
<p>“Your lovely wife is outside, mad as a snake, and spitting venom just like one, so I won’t keep you from her long.”</p>
<p>“General.” He blinks, obviously still a little groggy. </p>
<p>“Do you know that when you came to MARSOC, I got a call from Colonel Lee at Quantico.”</p>
<p>Haywood blinks at her. </p>
<p>“He bet me a bottle of 30 year old Scotch that within five years, I’d be stuck figuring out whether to give you a medal or court martial you.”</p>
<p>Haywood laughs weakly. </p>
<p>“Sergeant Edwards says that Echo company’s radio was damaged during the siege.”</p>
<p>“It was shot,” Haywood tells her. </p>
<p>“I bet it was.” She stands, brushing off her trousers. “Congratulations, Major Haywood, on your promotion. I imagine Colonel Chen's drafting Echo company's individual and unit citations as we speak for its work in securing the city. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bottle of Scotch to purchase. I'll leave you to your wife. Good luck."</p>
<p>"Asche and Morales, ma'am?"</p>
<p>"Alive. Your staff sergeant is downstairs. He had quite the concussion but is recovering. Gunnery Sergeant Ache is three rooms down from you, but has been taken in to surgery again."</p>
<p>Haywood closes his eyes. </p>
<p>Matilde lays her hand on his shoulder. "It was well done, Major."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She walks out the door, shutting it softly behind her. There's a young woman glaring at the nurse at the desk by the waiting room, saying, "I don't care if the President of the United States is in there, you will let me in to see my husband <em>right now</em>."</p>
<p>Matilde makes eye contact with the nurse to let him know she's done with the room, then she looks at Bells Teixeira. "He's all yours now, I believe, Ms. Teixeira."</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He watches her face as she steps into his apartment in Oceanside.  “You live here?”</p><p>He hangs his keys on the keyhook by the door. “Not enough to bother with. If I wasn’t in-country somewhere, I was in some class or training module, or I was dealing with bullshit in Quantico, or we were in Lejeune, or Bragg, or I was in New York with you.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Last chapter! Thanks for coming along with me through this story</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He watches her face as she steps into his apartment in Oceanside.  “You live here?”</p><p>He hangs his keys on the keyhook by the door. “Not enough to bother with. If I wasn’t in-country somewhere, I was in some class or training module, or I was dealing with bullshit in Quantico, or we were in Lejeune, or Bragg, or I was in New York with you.” </p><p>He watches her kick off her shoes and bites back the impulse to bitch about how she leaves her heels there in a pile. She puts her bag on the kitchen counter and he bends over and lines her shoes up in a neat line with the other shoes on the mat. </p><p>“You don't need to stay here, Bells, you’ll be bored as hell. I can meet you back in Manhattan when everything’s all sorted.” Could he have quit on the spot? Sure. But the only people he would have fucked over are his own marines. Doing it the right way means it’ll be a little while. Outprocessing. Separation counseling. They’ll have to promote a lieutenant up from somewhere. There’s things to line up with the VA, boxes to tick, procedures to follow. </p><p>Bells has no practice with all the military bureaucracy. </p><p>She spins around to glare at him, and she doesn’t look as mad as she had in the hospital, when General Richmond had left and she’d stormed in and stood there at the foot of his bed, shaking in anger, glaring at him through tears in her eyes, but silent, too angry and scared to get any sound out of her throat.  But she still looks pretty mad. </p><p>“I’m not going to <em>leave you here alone</em>, you’ve been shot!”</p><p>He picks her bag up off the counter and hangs it on the hook next to his keys. It’s funny, her messiness never bothers him in New York. Probably because it’s her space. A cleaning company comes twice a week and she never thinks about it beyond that. He laughs a little at himself. He’d had so many ideas about what he and Bells would fight about if they ever actually lived together and Lori had told him point-blank, “You’re going to fight about the toothpaste cap. You’re going to fight about how she leaves dishes in the sink or the kitchen towel bunched up and wet somewhere instead of hanging perfectly square from the oven handle. Eight years in the Corps leaves a mark, Haywood. It will bother you when things aren’t squared away. The question isn’t whether or not it will, but how you’ll react to it. Will you raise your voice? Will you berate her the way your father speaks to people, or will you let it go? Will you realize that she hasn’t ever had a need to line her shoes up in exact 90 degree angles?”</p><p>He takes a deep breath and reminds himself of the exercises he’d practiced with Lori. He kisses Bells’ shoulder when he steps behind her and says, “I appreciate it, Teixeira. I’m not trying to kick you out. I’m just saying this place isn’t exactly set up for two people. I’ve got a twin bed.”  He doesn’t say, <em>I’ll be fine, I’ve been shot before</em>, because he remembers exactly how thunderous she’d looked when his doctor had mentioned that in front of her. </p><p>You’d think it would be hard to hide a gunshot wound from your spouse, but as it turns out, it’s not really. It hadn’t been that bad, beyond the infection from not getting it treated for three days, and by the time they’d come and gotten him from the Doctors Without Borders camp, he’d been fine. Mostly. Cogent and talking enough to tell them not to call his emergency contact, at least. And he hadn’t gone long without contact during his mission for them to report him MIA.  He’d lied to her over the phone from a hospital bed in Walter Reed, told her he was still working, met her in Chicago during a six-hour layover that never required him removing his shirt, spent the next nine weeks in a linguistics class, then gotten sent on mission again, then been sent to Guam for an exercise, and then finally sent back to Oceanside. He’d had a neat little scar, well healed, by the time he got back. He’d covered it with a tattoo of a cypress tree like the one Saïd had found him under, and never brought it up. </p><p>Curled up with her in his hospital bed, he’d said, “I’m sorry, will you forgive me?” He'd thought about her face on the drive to the airport after her brother's crash and thought, <em>I never wanted you to see me like this.</em></p><p>She’d buried her face in his side and said, “Of course I do, it doesn’t make me any less mad though,” and he’d laughed and said, “That’s all right then.”  </p><p>Here, in his tiny apartment, she says, “Well, luckily we can buy a bigger bed,” and he doesn’t argue with buying a bed just for however long before they move back to New York. They can leave it on the curb for someone, or put it on craigslist. </p><p>She opens his fridge. There’s half a six pack of Coors Light and a jar of dijon mustard. She gives him a look. </p><p>“Don't look at me like that, you’re not any better. Come on, I’ll give you the tour of the rest of the place.”</p><p>The bedroom has a twin bed, a night stand, and the chair where he puts his uniform for the next morning every night. He had wanted to show her the tiny patio and the direction to the beach, but he is, suddenly, overwhelmingly, tired. </p><p>“I think,” he says, “I might need to lie down.”</p><p>They curl together on the mattress, and he’s reminded of fitting together on her dorm bed back in college. He huffs out a laugh and it moves her curls, tickling his nose. “Do you want to come with me to my marriage counseling appointment tomorrow?”</p><p>“You go to marriage counseling? Why?”</p><p>“To learn how to be a good husband. It’s not like I ever had any idea what that was supposed to look like.”</p><p>She’s quiet so long he’s worried she’s going to say no, or has fallen asleep, and then she says, “What if I’m not that good at being a wife?”</p><p>“I like the sort of wife you are.” </p><p>She squeezes his hand, then wipes her eyes. “Hayes, I'd be really happy to go with you."</p><p>"Thanks, Teixeira."</p><p>"I’m not going to get bored here while you separate. I can work remotely, and when I’m not working, I can surf. But what if you get bored in New York?”</p><p>“You’ll find something for me to do.”</p><p>“What if I quit, too? What if neither one of us is any good at staying in one place?”</p><p>“Then neither one of us will be bored, and we’ll have plenty to do.”</p><p>He closes his eyes and dozes for a few minutes. He can feel her smile against his t-shirt.</p><p>"Levi said something about a paddle party. Is it a sexy paddle? Do you get spanked?"</p><p>Hayes laughs, hard enough to make his stitches pull a little. "The shit you say, Teixeira."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to Dangercupcake for cheerleading, comma fixing, and so much good advice and critiquing.</p><p>As always, everyone is fictional, names are just randomly selected common first and last names. Please don't post to other sites like Good Reads, etc.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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